Fifty From Twenty
by sunandsurf
Summary: Christian Grey from the age of 20. Dropping out of Harvard and starting his own business.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Grey. Grey!"

Shit! I was miles away. Who's calling me? Oh, Daniels again, oldest member on the rowing team and soon to graduate his Master's degree. I can guess what he wants, but he's completely clueless about me.

"We're all going for a drink at the Riverman. You coming?"

"No, thanks. I'm going for a run."

He gawps at me and shakes his head in disbelief.

"You are a fucking machine, Grey," he says and walks away leaving me alone.

That's how I like it. And I know what he's thinking – that I'm not a team player, a weirdo. The truth is I don't really feel like going for a run, not after two hours of intensive rowing practice. I have to work hard to keep up with the rest of the team, to be better than them. I'm six-one but still the shortest, lightest and youngest guy on the team. They think I'm hardcore because I always go for a run after a training session. Maybe I am: my 'sessions' with Elena have taught me to endure, to hide what I feel. I _am_ fucking hardcore – none of the team would believe what I can endure. There's also no way I can shower at the same time as the rest of them – not with the fading marks of Elena's cane all over my back and down my ass. I smile to myself. That would definitely raise a few eyebrows.

My smile falls. It's still hard to leave her in Seattle, even after nearly two years at Harvard. If I don't see her for more than three or four weeks, I begin to feel off kilter. I know my parents are still worried about me being out here alone. It's fucking irritating – they keep asking me if I've made any 'friends'. They think I might start drinking again or go off the rails in some other way. That's not going to happen: Elena has taught me discipline – over my mind and body. I'm here to work. That's all. But it's getting harder, not easier. I don't know why.

I run a couple of miles then slowly jog back to the boathouse men's locker room. I strip off my sweaty kit and gratefully let the hot water flow over me. Hot water, being clean – these are pleasures I never tire of. Maybe it's because I haven't always had them. I shake my head and roll my shoulder muscles to dispel the memory.

When I turn off the faucet Jeff Williams, the number four stroke, is staring at me in horror.

"What happened to your back, man?"

Shit! He's seen the results of Elena's handy work. I'm fucking furious at myself for having been so careless. I should have checked that everyone had left.

I stare at him impassively. I've perfected this look since the age of 15. It hides what I'm thinking and seriously discomforts anyone I use it on.

He can't meet my eyes anymore and he lowers them abruptly. I grab a towel but he's still staring at me – at my chest this time. Is he close enough to see my scars? I don't know but the thought makes me frown. I don't want his pity: I don't want or need anyone's pity. It's none of their fucking business. I know that Williams is gay and that's why he never goes with the others on one of their drinking and womanising binges. Neither do I: Elena would beat the crap out of me if I did. But it dawns on me that he thinks I'm gay, too. That's why he's waited for me tonight. I wish he'd stop staring at me like that: horror on his face and pity in his eyes – it's pissing me off.

I stare back, keeping my face as blank as possible but my eyes give me away and he takes a step back.

"Sorry, man. I just…"

He can't finish the sentence and he looks away. I toss the towel in a hamper and pull on my jeans and a Tee then sit to put on socks and boots. The silence stretches between us; I'm not going to break it. I shove my kit in my sports bag and quietly leave. I'm out the door before I hear him follow me.

"Christian, I…"

I ignore him and keep on walking. Besides, I've got an appointment with that useless shrink that my mother and father insist I see. It was one of their demands when I got into a school 3,000 miles from home.

This latest idiot is a 'listening therapist'. I'm supposed to sit there and do free association talking. Fuck that. He's the third shrink I've seen in the last 18 months. This one's a complete dick. I sat silent throughout the first session as he waited for me to talk. I didn't. So now he thinks it's a battle of wills: he thinks I'll break and start talking to him. I won't, of course – I've got nothing to say to that fucking idiot. I feel bad that my parents are paying for this pathetic waste of space but if I stop going, they'll interfere and I don't need that.

Besides, I like it here, in as much as I like it anywhere. Nobody bothers me, not now. The first few months as a freshman at Harvard were fucking ghastly – people staring at me the whole time. Yeah, yeah, it's just a pretty face over an ugly shell. No-one would want to get to know that. Several of the braver or more forward girls tried – asking me to join them for drinks, or for help with their studies or even just offering me sex. I turned them all down. I don't want any of them – I only want Elena. Now they leave me alone, although they still stare. It's irritating but that's all.

The teaching is varied: some good, some surprisingly mediocre. I thought Harvard would push me a bit more; I've gotten pretty good at exploring my limits over the last five and a half years. Or rather Elena has gotten good at making me explore my limits. Nobody here has gotten anywhere near my limits.

I hate that my parents are paying for my fees here because it means they've still got control over me. They love me – fuck knows why – but they don't know anything about the real me: and I work very hard to keep it that way.

My favourite teacher is Professor Mathers. She teaches Behavioral Finance and Macroeconomics. She's straightforward, intelligent and fair. She doesn't take any shit either: if you don't work in her class, you're out. No third chances. Some of the other students don't like her because of the pace she goes at, but it suits me and anyone else who can keep up. She's one of those people who teaches because she believes in passing on knowledge from experience; not one of those ivory tower types who's never had to succeed in the real world. She's also a lesbian which is a relief, because it means she's not intimidated or diverted by my looks. I can trust whatever grade she gives me.

So I'm surprised when, later that week, after another pointless session with the asshole shrink, she asks me to come to her office after class. I've aced her most recent test – again, and she's given me straight As for every essay I've ever written for her. But I'm not happy with the latest assignment she's given us because she's told us to work with a study buddy. What are we, five years old, for fuck's sake! I don't need anyone's help and I sure as shit don't need a buddy. I've already made up my mind to work alone whatever she says.

"Mr Grey, if I could have a moment of your time, please."

The Professor has never asked to speak to me one-on-one before so I'm wary.

She says 'please' but I know it's not a request – I recognise that tone instantly. The other students stare at me as they leave the lecture hall. They've never seen her speak to me either.

When the last student has left I follow the Professor to her study. She points me into a chair in front of her desk.

"Well, Mr Grey, that was a very interesting interpretation you gave on the consequences of the loss of the Gold Standard in your last paper. Original thinking. I liked it a lot."

"Thank you."

I'm surprised by the compliment, but polite. Always polite.

"You have great potential, Mr Grey, of that I have no doubt. People like you are needed to lead this country's industrial future. Well now, have you decided who will be your partner for this next assignment?"

From the look on her face she already knows the answer. I see where this is going and I'm surprised. I didn't think the Professor was such a simpleton to pair me up with someone just because she thinks I'm a loner. I _am_ a loner – but it's by choice, for crissake.

She meets my impassive gaze, a small smile irritating the fuck out of me. I continue to keep my face carefully blank. I watch as she narrows her eyes.

"The role of a leader is to lead people, not to drive them, Mr Grey. Whilst brilliant, you need to be able to work _with_ people. I'm assuming you haven't yet selected a partner to work with?" She takes my silence as an affirmation.

We're disturbed by a soft knock on the door and she nods at someone over my shoulder.

"Well then, I have taken the liberty of selecting a suitable partner for you. Come in, Miss Hill. We were just discussing the latest assignment."

Shelly Hill enters. I recognise her. She sits at the back of my Macroeconomics class. She doesn't speak unless spoken to – like me. I haven't really looked at her closely before but I do now. She has long brown hair and light hazel eyes. She's dressed in cheap jeans and a baggy T-shirt. She looks pissed off. She must know why she's here and she's not happy about it either.

"Miss Hill, you know Mr Grey? He'll be your partner for the next assignment. I'm sure you'll enjoy working together. Thank you both for your time."

She's dismissing us. Shit! Time to speak.

"Professor Mathers, I'd rather complete the assignment by myself – and I think Miss Hill would, too."

The Professor smiles coolly.

"I'm sure that's true: but I've just explained why that won't be the case on this occasion. And I don't like to repeat myself, Mr Grey. Good day."

I stand up without another word and open the door for the silent Miss Hill, politely allowing her to leave before me. I follow her out and close the door.

In the corridor she's staring at me as if I'm a science experiment gone wrong. Good call, baby, because there's nothing normal about me.

"That told us," she says, raising a delicate eyebrow. "Believe me, I have no great desire to work with you either but it seems we have no choice."

I sigh. "It's nothing personal. I just prefer to work alone."

"As do I," she replies.

We stare at each other and slowly a pale blush blooms across her cheeks. Yeah, yeah – the usual response. She looks away.

"Let's go and get a coffee," she mumbles, "and then we can divide up the work so we can see each other as little as possible."

There's no point in being a shit.

"Good idea," I smirk at her and she gives me a small smile of relief.

She heads for the refectory, a place I normally avoid as much as possible.

"Why does it feel like everyone's staring at us?" she whispers.

I shrug. Because they are. I've gotten used to it. Vacuous people impressed by looks that are only skin deep. I buy her a cup of coffee and carry it to an empty table. She blushes again. Christ. I hope she's not going to start mooning over me and I throw her an irritated look. She squares her small shoulders and looks at me defiantly. It makes me smile and she stares at me in amazement before she starts to smile, too. Women don't usually make me smile – it's a novelty.

She shakes her head.

"Let's divide this up then," I say, getting to the point quickly. "We can do the introduction together – tonight, if you're free – then I'll do sections one through four and you do can do five through eight. Then get together and work out a summary."

"You're very bossy," she says softly.

That surprises me. Am I?

"Well, what do you want to do?" I ask, irritated again.

She cocks her head to one side and stares at me. "No, that's fine. I'd just prefer to have been asked, rather than receiving an order from high command."

I can't help laughing out loud and she smiles at me shyly.

"Ok," I say, "fair point well made. Do you want to get started on this tonight?"

"Sure. Tonight's good. Do you want to come to my room – say 7pm? My roommate's usually out by then so we can work."

I frown. Well, at least if I'm in her room I'll be able to leave when I want.

"I've got a class at 6.30pm but I could be there by 7.45pm."

"Oh. What class?"

I shift uncomfortably. I don't want to give this girl my life story even if she does seem like a rational human being.

"Kickboxing," I mutter.

"Oh," she says again. "Ok, 7.45pm."

She gives me the address and her cell number on a piece of paper.

The kickboxing class has allowed me to blow off some steam. I knocked the instructor on his ass which pissed him off. I wasn't even on my best form, distracted by thoughts of seeing Shelly Hill later. I'm going to have to find somewhere a bit more challenging to train. I jog back to my apartment and shower quickly.

Unlike most freshmen and sophomores, I don't live on campus. I still get nightmares and my parents didn't want me to have to go through the humiliation of waking up screaming with a roommate I don't know. It's bad enough when it happens at home. It's fucking terrifying: I wake up bathed in sweat, my heart hammering, tremors running through my body. And the memories. Always the memories. The only thing that soothes me is music.

I drive to Shelly's and get there by 7.40pm. But it's a blonde girl who answers the door when I knock. She's tall and curvy and stunning and I'm so not interested.

"You're here to see Shelly?" Her tone is as puzzled as her expression.

"Hi, Christian!" Shelly calls from inside. "Come on in."

Blonde Girl steps out of the way to let me enter, her expression frankly carnal. I'm used to it – it gets old fast.

For a moment it looks as if Blonde Girl is going to stay but then Shelly says, "Have a good evening, Hannah," and Blonde Girl reluctantly leaves us alone.

Shelly hovers nervously but I relax when I see textbooks scattered across her desk and over the bed. I can tell by her faint blush that she's embarrassed to have me in her room. There's only one chair so, ever polite, I shift some books on her bed to make a space to sit down. Her blush increases. To give herself something to do she offers me a coffee and I'm relieved that she wants to work, not talk.

I'm pleasantly surprised by how astute she is. She's so quiet in class I'd never noticed that she has a quick brain and a logical way of thinking. There's a creative side to her, too. And, to my surprise, we work well together. There's a lot more to Miss Hill than meets the eye. In a gentle, understated way, I find that she's attractive. For the briefest of moments I fantasise about asking her on a date. But it's just that – a fantasy. No sane girl would ever want me.

The assignment is mind-numbingly straightforward – for me, at least. It involves looking at real life case histories of companies and suggesting how and why they should be fixed. It's so fucking obvious what needs to be done that it's hardly a thrilling assignment. Surprisingly, Shelly has similar thoughts. Not for the first time I wish I could do this for real instead of a tedious paper-only project. I'd like to get out there and really work but my parents won't hear about any suggestion that means I don't graduate first.

We've been working solidly for nearly an hour when unexpectedly, I hear my phone beep with a text message. I assume it's either Mia or Elliot – no-one else ever texts me. But when I glance at it – shit! It's Elena.

* I'm outside your apartment. Where the fuck are you? *

Fuck. I'm in trouble.

"I have to go," I say, standing up quickly.

"Is everything ok?" asks Shelly, looking concerned.

"Yes, but I have to go. I'll see you in class."

I'm out the door and running before she can reply.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I drive like a bat out of hell back to my apartment. Elena doesn't do waiting. I wonder what she's doing here. She hadn't said she was coming East. But I know she likes to make unexpected visits to keep me off balance: she rarely lets me knows when she's on her way. This is the first time in two years she hasn't found me where I'm supposed to be.

Her eyes are furious and icy when I climb out of my car.

"Where were you?" she hisses.

"I was studying."

"Alone?"

Shit. "No."

"Man or woman?"

Oh shit, shit, shit.

"Elena, I…"

She doesn't give me a chance to finish my sentence before she slaps me hard across my cheek and then backhands me, her knuckles splitting my lip. Then she grabs hold of my head and pulls me down, kissing me brutally. I can taste blood in my mouth. Desire pulses through me and I kiss her back and I can feel her tongue probing the cut she's made. But then she pushes me away and slaps me hard again. My ears are ringing.

"I don't like to share, Christian," she snarls. "I think you've been misbehaving while you've been away this time. I'll have to do something about that. Get in the car."

Silently I walk round to the passenger door of her rental and do as I'm told. I don't know where she's taking me but she's in a furious mood, so it'll probably be something vicious. As usual, the thought arouses me and my cock starts to strain against my jeans. God, she's so beautiful when she's angry, her cold blue eyes narrowed in fury. I haven't seen her in three weeks and I'm as horny as hell. But suddenly I think of Shelly and her warm hazel eyes. The thought unnerves me. _What?_ This is so confusing.

I want to ask where we're going but Elena is in no mood for conversation. I know it's going to be bad.

So I'm surprised when she drives us to a relatively seedy area and parks the car on a side street.

"Out," she commands.

I slide out of the car and follow her two steps behind as is the proper demeanour for a submissive. I thought she was going to take me to a cheap motel where nobody would hear us – or if they did, they wouldn't care – but instead I can tell by the pounding music that it's a nightclub. My breathing slows a notch: maybe she just wants to dance first and fuck later. She stops at the entrance and snakes her arm around my waist, pushing her hand into the back pocket of my jeans and squeezing hard. She's letting me know that she's in charge – as if there were any doubt about that.

The street is full of various clubs and drinking dives with dirty windows. Opposite there's a scene where a group of rowdy women spill onto the street, laughing and talking. From the look of it I'm guessing it's a lesbian hang-out. For a second I'm diverted by the idea that it would be a place of sanctuary for me. I smile without permission and I can see that Elena's fury has just spiked up another notch. The smile falls from my face. I'm not ready for this; I'm _so _ready for this: my cock twitches with anticipation again.

It takes just seconds for me to realise that this is a BDSM club. The door supervisor looks askance at my casual jeans and T-shirt but Elena's unwavering gaze and Domme stance persuade him to let us in.

She hasn't taken me to many clubs: once in Seattle and a couple of times in Portland. We've never been to one out East; well, I haven't. I don't know about Elena. I don't even know who introduced her to all this. She's never said. It sure as hell wasn't Linc, her husband. He doesn't have a clue what she really likes. Or who. Thank fuck.

The music is pounding, too loud to talk, but Elena isn't interested in talking to me – not tonight. She pulls me onto the dance floor and we start to move. Elena sure can dance and she's taught me well. Suddenly she grips the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it over my head, shoving it into the back pocket of my jeans. I know my eyes have widened in apprehension; I'm afraid she's going to touch me.

She knows how I feel about that – and, exposed like this, somebody else might touch me. Christ – she's really angry with me. My mouth goes dry and my heart rate spikes.

She glares at me, a triumphant and cruel look on her face. I can guess what's coming next.

She grabs my wrist and drags me with her across the dance floor, then speaks rapidly to one of the staff, a blonde-haired woman dressed in a shiny, red leather bondage outfit.

We're taken up the backstairs and I guess that Elena's booked a private room – a fully equipped private room. The blonde gives Elena a key, throws a cool, calculating look at me, and leaves.

I know what I have to do. I remove my jeans and boxer briefs while she watches me and kneel by the door, eyes down, hands on thighs, knees apart, erection growing.

"You've seriously displeased me," she says softly. "Now, what am I going to do about that?"

The question is rhetorical: we both know what she's going to do.

"Go and stand by the wall," she says.

I stand swiftly and walk to the wall decorated with shackles and face away from her, my breathing shallow. Not seeing what she's going to do scares me and turns me on.

**Deleted scene – the following scene is MA on the Fan Fiction website, but you can read it on my blog.**

But for the first time I feel… I'm not sure what I feel. Anger, maybe? I know I don't want to be hanging here like this anymore, but Elena doesn't show any signs of intending to free me. Shit. How long is she going to leave me here?

Without speaking she stands and unlocks the door to our room. To my horror, the woman in red enters. Elena has never, ever done this to me before: she's never invited anyone to join our sessions. And I know why she's done it – to humiliate me. It's working – but I feel fucking furious, too.

The woman in red prowls around me. Surely Elena isn't going to let her touch me. But she does. She runs a sharp, red fingernail down my chest and I can't help myself – I scream.

"Elena!"

The woman in red blinks and looks at Elena but there's no change in her expression so the woman continues, touching me everywhere, running her hands over the marks of the cane. Elena knows where I can be touched but this stranger doesn't. My heart is beating so hard I think I'm going to pass out. I can't take anymore. I scream again as she runs her hand around the base of my neck and upper back.

"Red! Red! Red!"

The woman looks puzzled as I hang limply, my body trembling, my eyes screwed shut.

"Is that your safe word?"

I can't speak and Elena gives a small smile. "Don't worry about it."

_Shit! No!_

"Elena, please!"

I'm begging now, my voice weak and shaky, all pride torn away.

"He's safe-worded, hasn't he?" the woman demands. She crosses her arms. "I'm not gonna touch him if he's safe-worded. You're one tough bitch, you know that?" she says to Elena accusingly. She starts to unshackle me.

"Leave him alone!" spits Elena.

"No. _You_ leave him alone," says the woman firmly. "There are rules here: you should know that – you _do _know that. Either I let the kid go or I'm throwing you out. Got it?"

Elena gets it and stands hard-faced as the woman releases me.

"Ok, kid?"

I sink to the floor, unable to look at either of them. After a pause, the woman leaves the room.

Elena throws my jeans and T-shirt at me.

"Get dressed."

Numb, I pull on my clothes. My muscles are sore from hanging for so long and I have deep welts on my ankles and wrists from the cuffs. God knows what my back looks like. I don't care about that. I do care that she let that woman touch me.

Elena waits for me to climb to my feet. Christ, everything hurts and my ass is on fire. Walking hurts. I follow her down the stairs and back through the dance floor in silence. When we get out of the club I pull in lungfuls of cool, night air.

Too late, I realise that one of the women from the bar across the street is staring at me. As my eyes slowly focus, I see that it's Professor Mathers. She looks horrified. I must look bad.

_Shit. I don't need this. _

Elena hasn't noticed. "Car," she intones.

But Professor Mathers has a determined look in her eye and she crosses the street towards us.

"Mr Grey! Christian!"

Elena's head whips towards her.

"Who the fuck is that?" she hisses.

"One of my teachers," I say. My voice sounds low and hoarse.

"Are you alright, Christian?" Professor Mathers' voice is full of concern. It reminds me of the way my mom used to speak to me after I'd got into yet another fight.

"He's fine," says Elena coolly.

"I wasn't asking you," replies Professor Mathers in a clipped tone. "Christian?"

"I'm fine," I whisper. I can't meet her eyes.

She puts her hand on my arm and I flinch away, blinking up at her. She stares at the raw, raised welts on my wrist and I can tell that she gets it. She knows what I am.

I drag my eyes away from the Professor and gingerly get into Elena's car. The last thing I see as we drive away is the pity on my teacher's face.

Elena drops me at my apartment.

"Next time I expect you to fucking be here," she snarls. "I know your schedule: don't fuck up again."

She accelerates off into the night. I have no idea if she's staying in the area or catching a plane back to Seattle tonight. Right now I'm too tired to care. I drag myself upstairs and collapse onto my bed. I don't bother to undress.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I wake up screaming. Another fucking nightmare. When, when will they stop? Christ – they're getting worse.

As I start to sit up my muscles protest. I trudge into the bathroom and stare at myself. I'm still fully dressed from my encounter with Elena at the club. I pull off my sweat-soaked T-shirt and angle my shaving mirror so I can see myself in the main bathroom mirror. My back is a mess: in about half a dozen places she's broken the skin. She's never done that before; it'll be more than a couple of weeks before those marks fade.

I pull off my jeans and see that the marks from the cane continue down the back of my legs. Shit. I won't be able to wear shorts. I wonder if I'm going to have to cut rowing practice for a while. And kickboxing. It's going to look weird doing that with a long-sleeved T-shirt and long sweatpants.

I feel raw anger at what Elena's done to me. This is new. I've always enjoyed her viciousness before: or rather, found it an acceptable way to be near someone. Last night wasn't acceptable: she let that woman touch me. I fucking _hate_ being touched.

I shake my head. It's hard to compartmentalise all these alien feelings, especially at four in the morning. I roam around my small apartment, feeling anxious and caged in. Maybe a shower will help me calm down.

The hot water stings in too many places but it soothes as well. When the massaging stream cools, I stagger out of the shower and lie face down on the bed but I don't sleep.

As dawn breaks I pull on a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt and head outside. My muscles are sore but at least the pain in my ass is less – I guess all the training helps. I jog slowly through the park trying to put my thoughts in order. I don't know if Elena is still in town and whether or not she's planning on seeing me tonight. At the thought of her, my cock does what it always does but I'm irritated with my body's response. I don't want to go through what she put me through last night ever again. Touching is a hard limit. No. I won't let her do that to me again. Ever.

I stop running as I have an epiphany: I don't want to sub for Elena anymore. I don't want to be a sub ever again. I need control in my life – I fucking _need_ control. So no-one can ever touch me. Suddenly the image of Shelly flits into my mind. I imagine her sweet face screwed up with pleasure and pain as I fetter, fuck and flog her. Yes, that's what I want. I want to dominate women. Although maybe Shelly isn't such a good idea. I need someone already into the scene.

I start jogging again, letting the warmth of exercise loosen me up. By the time I get back to my apartment, my mind is made up. No more Elena. Unless… it's a crazy idea but maybe… unless she wants to sub for me? Would she go for that? I can't imagine it, but maybe. We'll see. I decide to text her, even though it's against her careful rules.

* Where are you? I need to see you again. C. *

I shower again quickly and dress carefully: a long-sleeved white shirt with the cuffs fastened to hide the welts. I pick up my books for class and remember that I left Shelly hanging last night. We were nearly finished, so it shouldn't take long to sort out our assignment. And I might be able to go to rowing practice if I put sweat bands over my wrists and wear long sweatpants. Kickboxing is definitely out though and the thought pisses me off.

Stupidly I've forgotten about Professor Mathers. She's waiting for me when I walk into the lecture hall.

"I'd like to see you in my office now, Mr Grey," she says, her face stern.

Some of the other students glance up at her serious tone. At the back of the lecture hall I can see Shelly staring at me biting her lip. Someone else that I'm going to have to explain things to: well, make up some sort of explanation.

I hover inside Professor Mathers' office as she shuts the door. It reminds me of the times I got expelled for fighting when I was 15, before Elena took me in hand.

"Please sit, Christian," she says quietly.

_Oh. Not 'Mr Grey', then._

I sit in the chair opposite her, leaning back, wearing my mask of arrogance. It's the face that irritates people the most. My body language is passively aggressive.

She raises her eyebrows as she looks at me. She's confused. I know what she's thinking: submissive last night – very different now.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You weren't fine last night."

She leaves the sentence hanging, but as she hasn't asked a question I don't bother to reply. I just stare at her.

"The woman you were with last night… is she your… girlfriend?"

I almost laugh. Elena is most definitely not my girlfriend!

I know Professor Mathers is just thinking of her pastoral duties towards a student, but I have to shut down this line of questioning.

"I don't like to discuss my private life, Professor."

She sighs. She's smart enough to see this is going nowhere.

"Well, Mr Grey, I hope you know you can talk to me should you have any… concerns."

Yeah right.

Her gaze hardens and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

"As your personal tutor it is my professional responsibility to inform the authorities of any risk-taking behaviour."

_Shit! She's serious!_

"And from what I saw last night… that is certainly the case with you."

"I don't need your help."

My voice is quiet but I can feel the careful control slipping away from me as my anger mounts.

"I think you do," she replies. "I'm going to make a formal recommendation for you to talk to Dr Weitz, our counsellor, this morning. Not negotiable."

I lose it big time.

I'm on my feet and staring down at her before I know it.

"Then I fucking quit! I don't need this. I don't need any of this! I'm out of here."

And I stalk out of her office, leaving the good Professor speechless.

I've said the words that have been churning around in my head for a while now. I've lost motivation at Harvard; I'm bored of the limits it has to offer me. I want to get out into the real world and put what I've learned into practice – put my god-given talents to use. He didn't make me a fucking genius for no reason.

"Christian!"

I scowl. I don't like people using my first name.

Shelly. Of course.

"What?"

She blanches at my tone.

"Are you ok? You left so suddenly last night – and you look kind of mad."

"I'm fine, thank you. But you'll have to complete Professor Mathers' assignment with someone else."

"Why?"

Her quiet voice sounds hurt and I stare down into her gentle my eyes, my angry stance softening slightly.

"Because I've decided to leave Harvard," I say, almost kindly.

Her eyes widen in shock.

"But why? You can't be having problems with your grades?"

I grin at her. _Oh no, baby, no problem there_.

I shrug. "I've had enough."

"But last night…" she stutters to a halt and I frown at her. "Last night was… really good," she says hesitantly.

I feel like rolling my eyes at her but that would hardly be polite.

"Take care, Shelly," I say over my shoulder as I walk away.

I drive back to my apartment, box up my shit, mostly books, CDs, and clothes, and drive it to a freight company to send home. I cancel the rent on my apartment and write a brief letter for the Harvard administration. No going back.

I take my Ford to a used car dealership and take the second offer he makes me.

An hour later I'm waiting at the airport for a flight to Seattle. I text Elliot and ask him to come pick me up when I land, 7am PST. He'll assume I've come home for a weekend break. No need to spread the good news that I've dropped out too soon.

I know it's going to be one hell of a fight with my parents. They'll try and talk me out of it. They won't succeed.

I hate the thought of upsetting them, especially my mother, but I have to do this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Elliot is waiting for me at the airport.

"Hey, little bro! How you doing?"

We shake hands as he grins at me. He knows better than to hug me. I suppose our greeting looks overly formal, but Elliot has my back. Always.

He frowns when he sees I've got my large suitcase with me. Usually I just travel with a carry-on bag if I'm home for a few days.

"What's with the case, bro?"

Typical Elliot: he cuts to the chase. He might look like laidback and chilled, but he's no-one's fool.

"I'm not going back to Harvard. I've quit."

His reaction is predictably shocked.

"What the fuck? Are you kidding? What happened?"

I feel like sighing but I know this is just a milder version of what my parents' reaction is going to be – although theirs will probably be without the cursing. I figure now might a good time to practise what I'm going to say.

"Nothing happened. I just didn't see the point of it anymore. I know what I want to do – and it's not another year of academic study."

"You sure about this? Mom and dad are going to have a meltdown!"

"Yeah, I know."

He shakes his head and slaps me on the shoulder. "It's your funeral."

It's so easy being Elliot: he's so straightforward – what you see is what you get. Not like me – with twisted, murky, depraved depths. Elliot knows I'm not normal but he's never loved me any less for it; I don't understand why.

The parking lot at Sea-Tac is quiet so we don't have to hang around. During the drive out to Bellvue, Elliot talks about the construction company where he works as a project manager.

"I mean, I'm not doubting the quality of the work – the crew are great – but the management are just fucked. They tried to get second fix on site when first fix hadn't been finished. It was a zoo: the guys tripping over each other to get work done. Some of the guys were getting pretty heated. I can see exactly what needs to be done but the asshole management won't let me do my job."

Oddly enough Elliot's words mirror my own thoughts: I know what needs to be done to fix a broken company. I can see it – it's like reading a book… no, it's more like listening to an orchestra and someone plays a false note. I can pick it out from a hundred instruments – hear it, feel it – and I know how to fucking fix it.

"I'm thinking of starting my own company: Grey Construction," continues Elliot. "I've got the contacts and I know a couple of good architects and landscape designers I can work with. Mom and dad said they'd help me get going… are you even listening to me?! What are smiling about, little bro?"

"Yes, I'm listening, Elliot. I'm smiling because that's exactly what I intend to do: start my own business. And for pretty much all the reasons you've just given."

He shoots me a surprised look.

"Really?"

"Really. Besides… can you imagine me working for anyone? How long before I told them they had shit for brains and got fired?"

He laughs out loud. "Good point, well made, little bro." His tone changes. "Mom and dad are going to take some persuading."

"I know."

I can see he's chewing over what he wants to say next.

"You want to stay at my place in the city for a few days? I've got a spare couch… mom and dad might need… some time to…"

He doesn't need to finish the sentence. I know he's right. We'll need some distance from each other.

"Thanks, Elliot."

He pulls into the long driveway of our family home. My second family. Elliot's and Mia's, too.

"I'll leave my case in the car," I say.

Elliot rolls his eyes. "Good plan."

Mom and dad are so happy to see me. Dad pumps my hand, this huge smile spread across his face. Mum grabs my other hand and kisses me about a hundred times. I feel such a shit. I'm going to hurt them so much.

A screech like a derailed freight train is Mia's realisation that I'm home. She comes hurtling down the stairs and crashes into me. She's the only one of my family who risks touching me.

She's grown again. I think she's going to be tall. Her hatchet-faced friend, Lily, is standing at the top of the stairs, fluttering her eyelashes at me. For fuck's sake. I pretend not to see her.

"Christian!" admonishes Mia. "Say 'hi' to Lily or she'll never forgive me."

I roll my eyes at Mia and she giggles.

"Hi, Lily!" I say, giving her my surprised didn't-see-you-there smile.

She simpers and blushes. Christ, she's annoying.

"Hello, Christian," she simpers.

She was a wretched child and now she's a vile teenager. God knows what Mia sees in her. But they've been friends since they started grade school. Females – a complete mystery.

"Laters!" calls Mia, as she runs back up the stairs.

Mom ushers me into the small living room and starts fussing over me.

"You look tired, Christian. Was the flight ghastly? Do you want something to eat? Are you just taking a quick break before your end of year exams?"

I take a deep breath. This is it.

"Actually… I'm not going back. I've dropped out."

Mom gasps and then there's a deathly silence.

"You've done what?" says dad quietly, too quietly.

I run my hand through my hair. "I wasn't learning anything new, dad. I want to start living my life. I know what I want to do."

"And what, pray, is that?" he says, with his icily calm lawyer's voice.

"I want to start my own business: telecoms manufacturing. I've got a business plan…"

"You're going back to Harvard. End of story."

"No, dad, I'm not."

"But, Christian," mom chips in. "This is just crazy – you're just over a year from graduating. Why on earth would you drop out now, sweetheart? Look, whatever's happened, your father can write to the dean, we can sort it out and…"

"No, mom. Nothing's happened. That's the point: I want to…"

"Want? You want to what?" says Dad. I can tell he's getting really steamed up. "You're a kid. How are you going to run a business? You've got no experience. The only work you've ever had was odd-jobbing at the Lincoln's and last summer's internship with my law partners."

"I know what I want to do, dad."

"Well, I forbid it."

I feel my careful control starting to slip away. "You can't stop me."

"I'll give it a fucking good try!" he roars at me.

His tone shocks me. He hasn't yelled at me since I was 15 – and he's never sworn at me before.

I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry mom, dad. I'll be in touch."

"Don't you walk out of this fucking door!" dad yells at me. "If you do, that's it! Your allowance – gone; the Trust money for your education – gone! You won't get a penny."

"Cary!" my mom's voice is shocked as I walk out the door. "Christian! Please don't go – not like this! Your father doesn't mean it!"

She's holding on to my arm, begging me. Elliot's face is serious as waits by the front door.

"Sorry, mom," I whisper.

I kiss her quickly and leave.

We walk to the car in silence.

"That went well," says Elliot.

His irony makes me almost smile. I didn't think anything could make me smile after that. I know I've hurt them.

"About what I expected," I say, truthfully.

"Come on, bro. We'll go back to my place and get drunk. How's that sound?"

"Pretty fucking good."

Elliot's apartment is in a redbrick building that looks like it used to be a warehouse. I'm surprised how tidy it is: Elliot is not very domestic. He sees my look and guesses correctly what I'm thinking.

"I have a housekeeper," he says. "She works for the whole apartment block: does the cleaning and washing and will do your groceries for an additional fee." He shrugs. "Works for me. You can stay as long as you need – you know that, right, Christian?"

Yeah, I know that. He's my brother. "Thanks, Elliot."

I dump my case in the corner of the living room. I feel caged in already. Good thing I'm not planning on spending much time here.

"Come on," he says, "there's a bar down the end of the street that sells some good import beer. Some college chicks hang out there, too. And guys," he adds, raising his eyebrows. Elliot still isn't sure whether or not I'm gay, but this is the closest he ever gets to an outright question.

The bar is crowded and noisy. Oddly, this helps me to think. Elliot talks more about his plans for Grey Construction. I'm mildly surprised. He's obviously put a lot of thought into this and he's got a better business brain that I'd have given him credit for. He's got his start up capital from mom and dad and he's chasing a contract that could really set him up. He's excited and hungry, I can tell. For the first time I can see that we have more in common than a love of hiking and sailing. I'm actually pretty fucking proud of him.

I'm on my second beer and Elliot is on his fifth when I realise a couple of co-eds are eyeing us up from across the bar. One is curvy and blonde and I know she's just Elliot's type. He's kept the whole family entertained with a long stream of attractive blonde girlfriends. Her friend has too much make-up and harshly dyed hair. But it wouldn't matter if she were Claudia Schiffer, I still wouldn't be interested.

_Why not though? _I think to myself. I've decided I'm not going to sub for Elena any more. But the truth is this woman does nothing for me. Nothing about her interests me. And things aren't finished between Elena and I – I still need to speak to her.

"Hello, boys!" says the blonde one, boldly walking up to stand next to our stools and leaning on the bar, showing an indecent amount of cleavage. She's checking us both out, trying to decide which of us to hit on.

"Well, hello yourself," says Elliot. "Can me and my lil brother buy you ladies a drink?"

_Fuck you, Elliot!_ I give him a look that would shred concrete, but he just winks at me.

"Brothers? How cute is that? You don't look anything alike!"

"I'm the good looking one," says Elliot which makes them both giggle.

The one with the dyed hair strolls over until she's right next to me. Her proximity makes me nervous. I stand up automatically and offer her my barstool. She takes it, staring up at me all breathless and doe-eyed.

_Get a life!_

"Elliot, can I borrow your car?"

"What?"

"Can I borrow your car – just for a couple of hours?"

He frowns but hands me the keys.

"Are you ok, bro?"

"Sure. I just need to get out of here. See you later, Elliot. And be _safe_."

He knows what I'm saying and smirks. "Sure, little bro. Don't wait up."

The dyed girl pouts at me but I couldn't care less. _Silly bitch_. If she knew what I was really like she'd run a mile. I'm doing her a favor.

I walk back to Elliot's apartment and climb into his car in the underground garage. I take a couple of deep breaths and pull out my cell.

I need to speak to Elena and she still hasn't texted me back.

She answers on the second ring.

"Christian! Why the fuck are you calling me?"

"I need to see you. Now."

"What?!"

"You heard, Elena. Are you at the house?"

"You're in Seattle?"

"I'll be there in 10 minutes."

"What the fuck's going on?"

I don't bother to reply but hang up, smiling to myself. She'll be really pissed now. _Bring it on!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

I'm leaning on the hood of Elliot's car when Elena opens her front door. I watch her, my face impassive as her expression turns from fury to wariness.

"What the fuck is going on? You know you can't come here unless I tell you to. It seems I'll have to punish you. Again!"

Her eyes light up at the prospect but she frowns as I smile coolly at her.

"No. The rules have changed, Elena. I'm not going to sub for you anymore."

There's a sharp intake of breath, then stalks towards me, her shoulders back, her head slightly forward like a bird of prey – her Domme stance. Her eyes narrow and I see her arm swoop up to hit me. I block the blow and grab her wrist, forcing both her hands behind her back. I'm pleased to see how shocked she is and I find I like the control it gives me. I really fucking like it.

"No, Elena. You don't fucking get to beat the shit out of me again. I'm finished with that."

"But… but you have _needs_, Christian," she says. "I'm the only one who knows what you're really like. You need me, don't you, Christian? You need what I can give you. I know every inch of your body – I know how to make you respond. Always."

Her expression almost makes me want to laugh. Is she _begging_?!

"True. And you've been a great… teacher. But not anymore, Elena. I'm finished with all of that."

"You came all this way just to tell me that, to make your big announcement?" she sneers.

"No, not really."

"Well, then?"

"I've got a project I want to start, here in Seattle."

"Project? What are you talking about? What about Harvard?"

"I've left."

"What?! Why?" She frowns.

"I've had enough. I want to get on with my life."

I shrug. She doesn't need to know the details.

A slow smile creeps across her face.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Or maybe just surprised that it came this soon; I thought Grace had you pussy-whipped into getting your nice Ivy-league degree."

"Don't you fucking talk about her like that!"

Now I'm really fucking furious. I see the enjoyment in her cool blue eyes. She wants me mad; she wants me losing control. My hands automatically tighten on hers and I see a tremor run through her body. I don't want to scare her… or maybe I do. Fuck. This is confusing.

I let her go and she's fucking laughing at me.

"Oh, yes! A 'project' here in Seattle!" She makes quotation marks in the air. "Master of the fucking Universe, aren't you, Christian!"

"Not yet," I answer evenly. "But at least I won't be fucking a housewife who's so terminally bored she has to seduce 15 year old boys to get her kicks."

She's so fucking mad, she looks like she's about to have a stroke. _Oh, yeah. Suck it up, baby._

"And I think I'll find myself a nice little sub, for weekends."

"You think you can be a Dom, Christian?" she whispers, fury etched into every word. "You wouldn't know where to start! But I can help you with that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll do it."

"Do what?"

"Sub for you."

My mouth drops open in amazement.

She takes a step towards me and rests her hands on my arms.

"I want you to hurt me, Christian. I want you to punish me… hard."

My mouth is still open and she drops her hands slowly, running them over her breasts, the tops of her thighs, rubbing herself.

And I'm so fucking turned on I can barely stop myself from leaping on her there and then in front of her house.

Suddenly she steps away from me.

"Linc will be home soon. You have to go. Sort out a place in the city and I'll come see you and we can start your new training."

She's dismissing me. This is not how I expected this conversation to go and for a moment I'm lost.

"By the way," she says, distracted by a sudden thought. "How are you going to fund this project exactly, start off by yourself?"

It's really none of her business but I'm so used to telling Elena everything that I can't help myself. "I've got some money saved… I'll start with that."

Her eyes narrow and she regards me speculatively.

"What if you had a lot of money?"

"I intend to."

She laughs naturally. "I'm sure you do, but what if you had a stake of, say, $100,000 to start you off?"

I gape at her.

"You want to… sub… me, with Linc's money?!"

Her smile grows broader and I laugh incredulously.

"Call me when you're ready, Christian. I'll have the bank transfer the money to you in the morning."

She turns and walks back into her house – and I've got the biggest fucking grin on my face.

I drive back to Elliot's in a daze. I still can't quite believe what happened at Elena's. That was an off-the-fucking-chart reaction. I don't doubt for a moment that she's serious. Elena has never lied to me. It's one of the things that make her special; I trust her.

By the time I'm back at the apartment I've got the details of a plan. I've known for a while the sort of company I'm interested in: and a couple of days ago I found it. A small, locally-based comms company. Their ROI is pitifully small so they're failing; they'll be history in six months unless someone – ie. me – can turn it around. They've got good research and development, and a great product, but their sales are woeful. That tells me two things: either the management don't know they've got a good product; or they don't know their asses from a hole in the ground.

I'll need about $175k to buy a controlling interest. Now Elena is going to loan me the first $100k, it should be much easier securing a bank loan for the rest. This is going to be the tricky bit. I've got a great business case and can prove profitable future P&L, but the banks will take one look at my age and (lack of) track record and throw me out on my ear. Unless I can convince them that their money will be safe. Which means most of the major banks are out, because they're too hidebound by their own red tape to move quickly and take the kind of risk they'll see in me. But there is one smaller bank that has a track record of taking informed chances. I have to admit that my hopes are pinned on them. That's Plan A. Plan B is to rob the fucker.

I'm feeling pretty tired after my long flight and the god-awful fight with my parents, but when I open the door to Elliot's place, I know there will be little chance of getting any sleep. A woman, probably the blonde from the bar, is in the very noisy throes of passion. Elliot's not much quieter. Shit. He'll be up all night if I know him, which I do. I have to say, listening to Elliot's love life at such close quarters does absolutely _nothing_ for me.

In the end I decide to go for a run. Maybe if I can run myself to a standstill I'll be too fucking exhausted to care how noisy Elliot and Ms Blonde are.

After two hours of pounding Seattle's streets I finally head back to the apartment. It's quiet. Thank fuck. I strip off my sweaty uniform and head for the shower. My body is aching with weariness but my brain is still racing on all cylinders. I hope a shower will help me relax, although the odds aren't good.

The shower is lukewarm so I don't linger as long as I'd have liked. I grab one of Elliot's towels and wind it around my waist. I'm relieved that his housekeeper keeps everything so fresh and clean – not Elliot's usual style at all. I'm feeling slightly more chilled so there's a chance of sleeping, but when I stroll back out to the living area, I'm stopped in my tracks. The Blonde is standing there staring at me, her expression leaving no doubt as to her thoughts, even if it weren't for the fact that she's fucking naked.

"Mmm!" she says, still staring. "Brothers! That's hot! But I'm afraid your brother doesn't seem to have much stamina. I was wondering if you have that in common, but you look… very fit."

She walks towards me and for a second I'm frozen to the spot. But when she reaches out to touch me I automatically take a step back.

"Don't touch me," I say, the warning obvious in my voice.

"Don't be shy, little brother," she says. "Elliot said you're shy around women. I can help you with that."

_Fucking Elliot._

"Let's play," she says as she cups her breasts with her hands. "You can touch them if you like."

She takes another step towards me.

"What part of 'no' don't you fucking understand: the 'n' or the 'o'?"

I stare at her stonily and her confidence withers.

"Oh, well fuck you, Mr Charming," she says, angry now. "I suppose Elliot was right when he said you were probably gay. There's no need to be so fucking unpleasant."

And with that she withdraws to the bedroom. Thank fuck.

I don't manage to sleep for more than a couple of hours so I'm awake early the next morning. Too early after yesterday, but the dawn chorus of my priapic brother and his new inamorata are hard to ignore. I dress quickly in my dark suit and white shirt. They're not too wrinkled from being in my case. I hunt around for a tie and finally find a silver grey one that Mia gave me for my last birthday. She said she bought it because it matched my eyes. My little sister can be really sweet sometimes; at other times she can be a proverbial pain in the ass.

My phone beeps and a text from Elena appears on the screen.

* **Money in your account. You owe me. ***

I go online to check, not really doubting that the money is there. But seeing all that cash in my account is a fucking buzz.

Next I book a meeting with the new business manager at the other bank. The earliest appointment I can get is 9.45am so I've got some time to kill. I rummage around in Elliot's fridge and find some fruit and yoghurt. I'm too wired to bother to cook but I'm still hungry so I toast about half a loaf of bread while I flick through the Financial Times online. The price of gold and agricultural land is soaring, but there's no news that will affect my interests at present.

Finally, about 8am, Elliot wanders out of his room looking thoroughly fucking pleased with himself, or just thoroughly fucked. It's usually means the same thing with him.

"Wow! You missed the chance of a great lay last night, little bro. So what did you do? Color coordinate your shirts? Oh, I forgot – you only wear white. Did you help yourself to food – I've got plenty."

"Good morning, Elliot, I slept pitifully thanks to you. But yeah, I found some food, thanks."

He smirks at me.

"So Julie wasn't your type then?"

I don't bother to reply.

"What is your type?"

"None of your fucking business, Elliot."

"Chill bro, just asking. In case you need any help in that department, the Love Doctor is open all hours."

It's hard to stay mad at Elliot, but sometimes he's such a _juvenile_, even though he's older than me.

"Where is the aforementioned Julie?"

"Sleeping off a rough night," he says, raising an eyebrow.

I really wish I hadn't asked.

I decide to head out, even though it's too early for the bank. I could use a quiet coffee and, frankly, I just can't face sitting in Elliot's apartment attempting to make small talk with the Blonde. I'm going to have to sort out my own place: living with Elliot just isn't going to work out.

I buy the local paper and look through the apartments to rent pages whilst I drink a scalding Americano with skim milk. The waitress is irritating, hovering over me offering refills. What's the matter with her? Why can't she leave me the fuck alone and go bother some other customer. Eventually I glare at her and she backs off.

I get to the bank a couple of minutes early. The new business manager sends out his assistant to usher me in. From the way her jaw hits the floor when she sees me, I'm guessing I'm quite a bit younger than she was expecting.

_Get in the game, Grey. You can do this_.

I take a deep breath and follow her into a side office.

A man of about fifty with thinning hair and acute, blue eyes stands up to shake my hand. I can see he's taken aback, as is his gormless assistant, but he covers it well.

"Mr Grey, please take a seat. How can I help you this morning?"

I run through my plan, my capital needs, my assets and immediate strategy. He asks sharp, incisive questions that I answer easily. I can see he's impressed, but will that be enough? I fucking need his bank's money to make this work. I hate this feeling of being at the mercy of events beyond my control.

"Well, Mr Grey, that's a very interesting proposition. Very interesting. The return on investment looks strong and I can see that you've put a lot of thought into this. My concerns, however, are two-fold: your lack of business experience; and your lack of track record. This puts you in a high-risk category for our bank."

"I'm aware of that, Mr Wilson, but I have demonstrated thoroughly that the risk, in fact, is negligible. The potential profits, however, are not."

I see him fight back a small smile.

"Well, Mr Grey, if anyone can pull this off, I'd say that you can. I'll have the paperwork prepared – if you could return this afternoon to sign, I'd say you're in business."

"Thank you, Mr Wilson. A wise investment."

And I'm so fucking happy as I walk out of that bank. I can't remember feeling like this since… well, not ever. Stage One complete. Stage Two is buy me a fucking company.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Seattle Independent Comms is now mine. Well, 51% mine; the other 49% is owned by Old Man Roberts. I like him, he's a decent human being, a man in his 70s who has the bad luck to have a wet fucker for a son.

Daniel Roberts is 48 and can't tell his ass from a hole in the ground. That's the reason SIC is failing. So far I've only met the two Roberts men. Mr Roberts Sr has been ill and handed over the day-to-day running to his jack-shit of a son. You can imagine how much Roberts Jr likes me; and you can imagine how much I don't give a fuck. I'm intrigued to learn that Roberts Jr doesn't own any part of the company – his father must know what a fuck-up he is. And speaking as someone who is a multicolored fuck-up, I happen to know what I'm talking about. But I'm not a fucking idiot – not like Daniel S Roberts.

I haven't told my parents anything about my plans. Dad made it pretty clear that he wasn't interested and mom will just worry about me. Elliot, however, is pretty fucking mad at me. He keeps telling me to call them and that dad's sorry for what he said. Whatever. He can tell me himself. He knows my number. Mia has been hassling me with texts and emails and leaving messages every day. I've emailed her back, but have been carefully neutral in the information I've given her.

I've found an apartment but I can't move in until next weekend. Elliot's apartment is, of course, empty during the day and I make sure I'm out by the time he gets home of an evening. Mostly I don't get in again until he's gone to bed. But that routine is getting pretty old. I can't wait until I've got my own space.

So it's Monday morning and I'm going to meet the rest of the SIC management. They'll get one fuck of a wake-up call when they see who's their new boss. I insisted that neither of the Roberts told any of the staff about me; I want to see the honest reactions in everyone's faces – that will tell me a lot about the people who will be working for me.

There are three people for me to meet: David Rintz, head of IT; Marco Gambatti, head of sales; and Ros Bailey, head of R&D.

We're waiting in the meeting room as they file in. I can see them wondering who I am and for what reason they've been summoned here at 8am on a Monday morning. Old Man Roberts introduces me and I see the shock on all their faces. Bailey hides it the best and gazes at me coolly. Rintz seems confused, a look I'll get to know increasingly well from him I think, but I see Gambatti throwing an appalled look at Roberts Jr. Interesting. Looks like he thought he'd be running the company with Junior now Old Man Roberts is mostly out of the picture. _No you fucking won't._

Other than telling them my name and the fact that I'm their new boss, I arrange to meet separately with all of them. It doesn't take me long to figure out that Rintz is a well meaning but inept manager. He's been promoted beyond his ability and is much happier taking orders. That's ok for now, but he's not the person I'm going to need to get the job done. He's worked for the company for 22 years. It's going to be an expensive redundancy package and at 52, he doesn't have much chance of getting another job. Not my problem.

Gambatti tries the one-of-the-guys approach. _Who the fuck does he think he's dealing with?_ I pin him down on his poor sales record and he tries to fob me off saying he's got a big contract with a retail chain. The truth is he's tried to get an appointment to see their chief buyer but has got nowhere. Fucking lightweight. As I tear his carefully constructed tissue of lies to pieces, he starts to sweat. An hour later he walks out of my office, ashen.

Ros Bailey is cool, calm and collected and, a first for this company, knows what the fuck she's talking about. Her interest in research, development and innovation is genuine. She's got a good team working under her, producing impressive results. I can't understand why she isn't heading up R&D at some international company – she's that good. I dig a bit deeper; she fends me off without breaking sweat. I start to enjoy the cut and thrust of our discussion – she has no trouble keeping up with me – another first for this company. But I've got her figured out: glass ceilings. Ms Bailey suffers from being a woman in a typically male sector. And, from her utter lack of reaction to me, I suspect she's gay. That might sound pretty, fucking arrogant, but it's only stating facts. I've gotten pretty good at working out the shallow fuckers who are only interested in the pretty packaging; those people mean less than fuck-all to me. Ms Bailey is different. Plus she's intelligent and more than capable. I shall keep my eye on Ms Bailey.

The next few days are a whirl of meetings and introductions and reading reports and analysing spreadsheets. Unfortunately Roberts Jr is the head of finance: what a dick. His system, if you can call it that, is a fucking car crash. His forecasting is a complete fiction and his business plans are – well, shit. Between him and Gambatti, the company is in freefall. Roberts Sr recognises this: that's why he nearly bit my arm off with gratitude when I approached him with my offer.

For the rest of the week I work 19 hours a day. But even after that I can't sleep at night. My brain is whirling with ideas and issues, problems and solutions; I feel like my head will fucking explode.

"Come on, bro, it's Friday night – let's do something!"

Elliot tackles me as soon as I walk in the door.

"You look like crap and I could use a drink."

"No thanks, Elliot, I've got to sort my shit out for tomorrow."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, bro. You've only got a suitcase here: it'll take you all of five minutes to sort out your stuff. Come on, do me a favour: mom's been nagging at me to talk to you. She misses you – dad, too. And Mia is driving us all crazy – crazier."

I can see he's not going to let it go and I know I need to switch off for a few hours so I take a quick shower and pull on my jeans and a black T-shirt. Elliot drags me out the door before I can change my mind.

We go to a small Italian restaurant near his place. The food is good and I start to relax slightly. We discuss Elliot's plans for his construction company and his interest in alternative technologies. Then the real reason for his insistence on coming here becomes apparent.

"Look, mom really wants you to come to the annual fundraiser a week Saturday. She made me promise to talk to you about it."

"I can't, Elliot, I'm too busy right now."

"Too busy for your family?"

"That's below the belt."

"Whatever. I think you should come, sort things out with dad. At least give him a chance to apologise."

My hold on my temper is more fragile that I'd realised._ I don't need anyone telling me what to fucking do!_ I feel fury building up in me and I know I have to leave or I'm going to lose it big time. I pull some notes out of my wallet and throw them on the table.

"Come on, Christian!" Elliot calls after me, but I'm out of there.

I stride up the street seething. I want to hit something so fucking badly I jam my fists into my jacket pocket in case someone so much as looks at me the wrong way. I barely notice where I'm going and forty minutes later I find myself a couple of miles away from Elliot's apartment and outside a place that I've been to once before with Elena – a BDSM club.

I hesitate for less than a second.

The music is pounding and the club is full of S&M wanna-be's in all the leather bondage gear. But I know that the serious shit goes on downstairs.

The maitre d' is a woman in a red bondage corset; she sums me up immediately.

"You looking for some action, handsome?"

I nod.

"We've got a couple of subs-in-training that might suit you? Follow me."

The downstairs rooms are small, dark, windowless dungeons with all the equipment I could wish for. Perfect.

"What you want, sugar?" says the maitre d'. "We got blondes, brunettes, old, young – what are you into?"

"Brunette. Long hair. I don't care about the age."

She looks at me thoughtfully and shows me into a room at the end. A brown-haired woman of about Elena's age is sitting reading a book. Her hair is in a long braid down her back; she could be a librarian except for the fact she's wearing nothing but a leather thong. I feel myself start to get hard. I don't know if it's her or staring at the set of canes on the wall. _Oh, yeah._

The woman looks at me expectantly and nods.

"Ok, guys," says the maitre d'. "Usual house rules: safewords are 'yellow' and 'red'. Those are absolute: everything else is up to you guys."

She closes the door behind her and I can feel the tension start to mount. I stare at the woman and her self-possession begins to fail. Before my eyes she turns into a sub and drops her eyes to the floor. It's such a fucking turn on.

"Kneel."

Quickly she gets on the floor. Good. I don't like to repeat myself. I walk round her, measuring her up, assessing her. She keeps her eyes on the floor. I'm not going to touch her until she's secured.

"Up."

She stands.

"Walk to the wall. Now face me. Arms above your head."

She follows my orders, raising her hands above her. Slowly, I pace towards her. Her eyes follow my every move, wide and expectant. I grip her wrists and chain them in the leather cuffs provided. I can see her leaning in as if she's going to kiss me.

"Don't fucking move!" I hiss at her and abruptly she stops, a frisson of fear going through her. _Don't make me pissed, lady!_

Once her hands are secured I relax slightly. I need music. I stroll over to the CD player and flick through the available CDs. What a load of shit. But I find a disc with Chopin's Nocturnes – that will have to do. I hear her gasp of surprise as the music starts – probably not what she was expecting. _Get used to it, lady, I never do what's expected_.

**Deleted scene: sorry folks, but the full version is on my blog.**

**Fifty dash shades dash of dash grey dot me**

She manages to put her trembling legs on the floor but she can hardly stand. I release her wrists and she slumps down. I pick her up and lay her on the bed. She can barely open her eyes. I watch her for a moment, my head cocked to one side, then pick up my discarded jeans and T-shirt and pull on my socks and boots.

I'm about to leave when I hear her soft voice.

"What's your name?"

I frown and shake my head.

"But I'd like to ask for you again," she says, a smile in her voice.

I don't reply.

"I'm going to call you… Bronze," she says. "Thank you, Bronze. You're very dark; I like that in a man."

_Oh, you have no idea._

"See you again, I hope," she whispers, her eyes closing.

I'm surprised to see the maitre d' is waiting outside. Has she been there the whole time? I suppose that's a sensible precaution as she doesn't know me from Adam.

"Wait here a moment," she says.

She peers into the room and some unspoken communication passes between her and the woman who looks like a librarian.

"Well, you've got a very satisfied customer there," says the matire d', hiding a smile. "Here, this is for you."

She hands me an envelope. I frown but open it. A thousand dollars in $100 dollar bills. _What?!_ I look up at the maitre d', stunned.

"Your fee," she says, raising one eyebrow.

This is so fucking funny I can't help laughing out loud. The maitre d' doesn't understand my reaction. She looks at me like I'm some wild animal who happened to wander into her club.

I stuff the envelope in my jacket and wander off into the night.

And to think I used to think of Elliot as a manwhore. The thought makes me smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

It's 2am by the time I get back to Elliot's flat. I'm disappointed to see that the light is on; I hope it doesn't mean he's still awake. I really can't face his attempts at talking me into seeing dad again. I almost head out back to the streets but I think my temper is in check: still there, seething beneath the surface, but restrained – for now.

Yep, the Elliot inquisition is on schedule.

"Where've you been, Christian?"

His voice is quiet and he looks tense.

"Walking."

"Look, I don't want to fight but I can't be the middle man here. You and dad have to sort this shit out."

_Fair enough. I don't need Elliot's fucking help._

"I'm moving out in about six hours, Elliot, so you won't have to put up with it much longer."

"You're being a juvenile fucking shit."

"Don't push me." My voice is deadly quiet and Elliot's blue eyes widen in surprise. I can feel my hands balling into fists again, my blood surging with sudden anger.

"Do you want to fight me, Christian?" His voice is shocked.

"No! Just… leave me alone, Elliot. I mean it."

He shrugs, his eyes cool and distant.

"Your call, bro," he says softly.

Then he stands up and heads for his bedroom. It's the closest we've ever come to a real fight. It scares me how badly I wanted to beat the crap out of him, my own brother, for fuck's sake. I am one fucked up son of a bitch. And it's getting worse. I don't know what to do to stem the fury that constantly fills me. I can't stop.

I can't sleep either, so I work. About 5am it's just starting to get light. I'm picking up the keys for my new apartment at 8am. Elliot's right about one thing: I've got fuck-all to pack. I move quietly around his room, picking up my shit and throwing it in the case. The rest of my belongings from Harvard have been freighted to my parents' place. They'll have to stay there for now.

I leave quietly. Elliot can have some peace now I've gone. I'm not _ever_ going to live with anyone again. I fuck it up for everyone who comes near me. I don't want that for my family. I have to stay away from them.

But there's one positive thing in my life: my work. I can make a difference there: I can fix failing companies like SIC and turn them into profitable businesses, securing salaries for the people who work for them.

I can see the irony: fixing fucked up companies when no-one can fix me.

My new apartment is large because I hate feeling caged in. That's the best you can say for it. It's one of those converted warehouses that you see everywhere in older parts of Seattle. There's a small bathroom at one end with a shower unit and a kitchen/diner which is basically a two-ring stove top and breakfast bar. There's no refrigerator, microwave, or anywhere to sit. There's also no bed or TV. I don't care about the TV but I guess I'll need somewhere to sleep. The wooden boards are filthy so the first thing I need to do is hire a sander and clean them the fuck up. It's back-breaking work, but doing something physical like hiking or fucking has always been a sort of therapy for me.

By the end of the day I've got everything I need, including a low, wooden futon bed. It's minimalist but it suits me. I haven't got a closet so I buy a hammer from a hardware store and bang some nails into the raw, brick walls. Hanging my clothes on the walls makes it look like a sort of strange, modern art gallery. I like really the idea that no-one knows where I live.

I run, I work, I eat, I listen to CDs and sometimes I sleep. I miss having a piano. The next place I live in will have room for a fucking piano.

I'm first in the office on Monday morning. I note without surprise, that Ros isn't far behind me.

"Good morning, Mr Grey," she says pleasantly. "I'd like to discuss getting some extra staff for the broadband project. I wrote a report for Mr Roberts Jr but he didn't…"

I like the fact that she doesn't waste my time asking how my fucking weekend was, but I cut her off before she can say anymore.

"I read it. It was good. I've got three potential interns coming in from WSU this morning. You'll be interviewing them with me. If any of them are good enough, you can have them for your project."

For a moment she gapes at me then quickly regains her composure.

"Thank you! That's… great. Er… what time?"

"My office. 8.45am."

"Well, ok then!"

She walks away smiling to herself.

I email my schedule to Susan. She's supposed to be my PA but she's pretty fucking useless. She's attractive in a blousy sort of way: big tits, lots of make-up. I also suspect that Roberts Jr has been screwing her on the company time. The fucker doesn't even know enough not to screw the staff.

I leave a note on her desk saying I want coffee for three people in my office by 8.30am. When it doesn't appear I stalk out to see what the fuck she's playing at. She's on the phone speaking in whispers. It's obvious to me that she's talking to Roberts Jr and he's trying to find out what I'm up to.

I take the phone from her and replace it on the receiver.

"Coffee for three people. Now."

"Oh, sorry, honey, I was just…"

"You can call me 'Mr Grey' or 'sir' but if you ever delay fulfilling an instruction again, you're fucking fired. Understand?"

"But…"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

She's appalled. I doubt anyone here has spoken to her like that before. And I'm fucking furious – she made me lose my temper.

At 8.40am Ros is in my office reading through the three resumés I've had faxed over. Susan brings in a tray with the coffee. Her hands are shaking and she looks like she's been crying. _Oh, for fuck's sake!_

The first potential intern is fucking useless. He's out the fucking door in three minutes flat. What are WSU playing at sending me that fucking idiot?

The second one is wearing a decent suit and is obviously competent but no more than that. Ros looks faintly disappointed.

The third and final intern looks like he just fell out of bed after a long weekend of partying at a music festival. Ros blinks in astonishment. But what the guy doesn't know about IT hasn't been dreamed of yet and, from the way he talks, he's done a lot of dreaming. He's just what we need and I suspect the reason that he hasn't landed an internship is because of the way he looks. I don't give a shit what he looks like; I only care that he can do the job. I glance at Ros and she's beaming. She gives me a tiny nod.

"Thank you, Mr Sullivan, we've heard enough," I say and the guy's face falls. He thinks he's out on his ear. "We'd like to offer you a place here at SIC. When can you start?"

"You're offering me a job? Why?"

Ros's grin threatens to split her face in half. "Because you're the one we want, Mr Sullivan."

"Wow! That is so cool!" he says. "Call me, Barney. I didn't think people like you… I mean, the suits and shit… er… stuff… you never…"

"When can you start?" I say cutting off his happy waffle.

"Whenever!"

"Right now is as good a time as any," I reply. "Personnel will contact you for your details during the morning. Good to have you on the team, Barney."

My shitty morning just got a whole lot better. Barney Sullivan is a fucking genius. And when I look at my phone at lunchtime, there's a text from Elena.

* Tonight. Call it payback on the loan. Txt me yr address. *

Tonight should prove interesting.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Elena is waiting outside my apartment and she looks fucking pissed. Good. It's important to start as I mean to go on.

"You're late," she snarls as I walk towards her.

"And?" I say calmly.

She blinks up at me. "I don't do waiting," she says, the strain in her voice obvious.

"And yet it appears you do, Elena."

She looks shocked. I decide to clarify the situation for her.

"I'm not subbing for you anymore. Remember? You're at my apartment: so it's my rules once you cross my threshold. You want to play, baby, I'm in control."

Her expression changes to amusement.

"You're serious about that?"

"Oh, yes."

She pauses for a moment, considering.

"Are you going to invite me in? Sir?"

Excitement ignites my blood and my cock twitches with anticipation. And I want to fuck her right here, right now. Up against the wall. I want her to feel the brickwork on her skin, on her face, as I fuck her hard from behind.

Instead I maintain control: this is all about control. I'm the fucking master of control: of myself and now of her. I open the door to my apartment block and gesture for her to walk ahead of me. She enters, her eyes downcast. It's such a fucking trip having her here like this. But I don't want to get ahead of myself: I want to make this last – I want her to beg. And there's the anger again: raw and hot. I don't just want to hurt her, I want to debase her, humiliate her. I know this isn't the proper Dom/sub relationship; no, this is Elena. And I owe her.

I walk behind her into my apartment, planning our first scene. It's a pity I don't have any way of suspending her; I'd like to fuck her mouth while she's blindfolded like that. On the other hand, I picked up some supplies from a hardware outlet on the way home: masking tape, rope, cable ties, Velcro and some of those thin garden canes that people use to prop up… I don't know, shit in the garden. _I'm improvising, ok?!_ But I'm really going to have to build up my own collection. Handcuffs – something about all the symbolism that comes with them: that's a real turn on.

I see her looking around my apartment. I know there's not much here, but her look of pity really makes me pissed. I slap her ass hard and she jumps.

"Eyes down!" I hiss.

She obeys immediately. _Yes, baby. Get used to it_.

"You're wearing too many clothes," I mutter. "Strip. Slowly. Keep your eyes down."

I lean back on my bed and watch her.

She shrugs out of her coat and drops it on the floor. Then she eases off her shoes and unzips her skirt, kicking it away from her. Mmm, she's wearing stockings. I think she can leave those on. But she knows my tastes so well, and she doesn't touch them. Instead her hands move to her soft, peach colored shirt. She pulls the fabric so it's sheer against her, showing her nipples are growing hard.

The shirt flutters to the floor and her sensational body is slowly revealed. She unhooks her bra and drops one shoulder at a time, letting it fall on top of her shirt. She peels her panties down her thighs and steps out of them when they pool at her feet.

It's cool in the apartment and a shiver runs through her. _Don't worry, Elena, I'll warm you up._

I've grown hard watching her. And even though we've played this scene a thousand times with her in charge, this feels natural. Yes, this is me: in control. It's where I want to be; it's where I _need_ to be.

"Come here."

She walks towards me, her eyes still downcast, but I sense her excitement – the thrill of the unknown. She knows I want to hurt her – I _need_ to hurt her and that turns me on. Two sick fucks together – we're made for each other.

I stand up quickly and I'm pleased that she takes a sudden step away from me. _Yes, you should be scared_. I take off my jacket then throw it on the bed.

"Undo my tie."

She reaches for the knot at my throat and gently loosens it, sliding the silky material out from under my collar.

"Now use it to blindfold yourself."

She obeys immediately, fumbling slightly with the knot at the back.

Depriving someone of vision makes them more vulnerable; it forces them to rely on their other senses.

"Hands in front."

**Deleted scene: sorry, FF censors. You can read the full scene on my blog**

**Fifty dash shades dash of dash me dot com**

**Sorree!**

Her eyelids flutter as she blinks in the sudden light. I can't find any scissors so I use a kitchen knife to free her hands.

She smiles up at me.

"How was that for your first time, Christian?" she says slyly.

I raise my eyebrows in question.

"Your first time being a Dom?"

Her question makes me smile and I see her frown as comprehension dawns.

"You've done this before? When?"

Her tone is almost hurt and I laugh out loud. "None of your fucking business, Elena."

I find a T-shirt and my sweatpants and open a bottle of white wine chilled from the fridge, offering her a glass.

"No, I have to get back or Linc will wonder where I've been." She frowns.

"He'll guess when he sees your ass," I tease her.

She smiles serenely. "Do you think I let that weak fucker anywhere near me? Our marriage has only lasted as long as it has because we both seek pleasures beyond the marital bed. Thank Christ. As long as we keep up appearances outside…"

"So he knows?"

"Not everything. Don't worry, Christian. Your little secret is safe with me."

Her tone makes me want to pick up the cane again but I want her gone: I really need to work now.

"Where does he think you are?" I ask, with faint interest.

She rolls her eyes. "At a fundraiser committee evening."

"I can't believe he fell for that; it's hardly your scene, is it?"

"Actually I did go for an hour," she says. "It was at your mother's. I thought Grace looked very well. She misses you."

I tense and she laughs. She knows that I hate her talking about my family when we're like this: sated from our sick pleasures. But now I can do something about it.

"If you ever, ever mention my family again, I will whip you and fuck you until you can't stand."

I speak quietly, my voice controlled. She's overstepped the mark.

I hear the intake of breath as she processes my words and my tone.

"I think you'd better go now, Elena."

"You want me to leave?"

"Yes. Now."

"Ok."

She pulls on her clothes quickly.

"Goodbye, Christian."

"Goodbye, Elena."

She leaves without speaking again. And I'm glad. I want my apartment to myself. I need the peace that a solitary life offers.

I open my laptop. The ROI forecast is improving already.

It's Tuesday afternoon when I get a call on my cell phone from my mom.

"Christian, darling. I'm so sorry to bother you… at work. But… can you speak now?"

"It's not a great time, mom, I'm pretty busy."

"I know, darling, but… look, I have some bad news…"

My breath catches in my throat. "Is dad…?"

"No, nothing like that. Your father's fine: Elliot's fine, Mia's fine, my parents are fine. It's Elena Lincoln… I know you were fond of her that summer you worked for her. I thought you'd like to know…"

"Elena? Mrs Lincoln? What about her?"

"She… she had some sort of accident last night. She's in hospital. It's pretty bad."

"A car accident?"

"Well, no, but I don't know all the details but your father is with her now."

I'm confused. "Why is dad with her?"

"Because," I hear her soft sigh, "because she's been beaten – badly assaulted. We believe she knows the assailant. Your father is trying to persuade her to press charges." She pauses. "I… I just thought you'd want to know."

I don't know what to say. Then mom is speaking again.

"We all miss you, Christian, your dad most of all. Please say you'll come and see us soon. Please, darling."

"Ok. I'll… I'll drive over later," I say automatically.

"Will you, darling? Oh, your father will be so thrilled. So will Mia. Tonight, then, Christian?"

"Yes, later, mom."

She hangs up and I'm left staring at my cell phone.

Elena. _Oh, Christ._

Ros is surprised when I say I'm leaving work early.

"Is everything ok?" she asks, concern on her face.

"Fine," I mutter without conviction.

She doesn't try to start a conversation, thank god, because I'm so fucking wired I might just crack under the strain of holding it all in.

I'm barely aware of driving to the hospital. I walk in a dreamlike state towards the reception desk. The middle-aged woman there blinks and blushes when she sees me. _What's the matter with her? Just tell me where Elena is! _I ask for Mrs Lincoln. She asks if I'm family. What a fucking joke.

"No, a friend of the family. My mother, Dr Trevelyan, asked me to come and see her."

The mention of my mother's name is a talisman to give me the information I want. What a sick, fucking, cosmic joke. If my mother really knew the nature of my relationships with Elena… but she never will. Never. Not over my dead fucking body.

I look through the small window of Elena's room. I can't recognise the bruised and bloody pulp in front of me. Her head is swathed in bandages and her eyes are swollen shut. One arm is in plaster. And I know… I know…

I enter the room, moving with the soft tread of a penitent in a church; I can hardly speak.

"Elena? Oh, fuck, Elena!"

Slowly, painfully she turns her head towards me. One side of her face is covered in bandages – the other a ghastly mass of purple flesh.

"Christian?"

"I'm here, Elena."

"Christian."

Her speech is slurred but her tone is so fucking grateful.

"Did… did Linc do this to you?" I have to know.

"Yes," she says softly. "He knows, Christian. About you. About us."

"Fuck."

I stand up, pacing across the room, running my hands through my hair. I'll nail that fucking bastard's hide to the nearest fucking tree. I'll eviscerate him. I'll tear his worthless heart out of his rotting corpse.

"Don't," she says softly.

"Don't? I'm going to fucking kill him for doing this to you, Elena!"

"No, please." Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because it's not what I want."

"Why, for fuck's sake? Elena, the bastard nearly killed you!" My voice is getting too loud but I can't seem to control it anymore.

I think she's trying to smile. "I deserve it," she said. "I don't care, Christian. It's good to feel something. I haven't felt anything in so long – only with you. Only with you, Christian." She takes a deep breath and I can see that talking hurts her so I listen carefully. "Linc will let me divorce him and give me a good settlement. Your name won't be mentioned if I agree not to prosecute him for… for assaulting me. That's the deal. Non-negotiable."

"Oh, Christ, Elena!"

"No, Christian. This is what I want. Please. I'm so tired. So tired."

I hold her hand while she drifts off to sleep.

So I can't touch Linc. Not yet. But revenge is a dish best served cold – and I've got a long, fucking memory. Linc might get away with this today… but I'm coming for him. One day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The last thing I feel like doing is driving out to Bellevue after leaving Elena at the hospital, but I told my mom I would. And, it's time to face dad. We haven't spoken since I told them I was dropping out of Harvard.

Mia meets me at the door and hurls herself at me.

"I'm so _mad_ at you, Christian!" she says forcefully. "Mom and dad have been so upset. And why haven't you returned my texts? I didn't do anything – why are you being so mean?"

I don't know what to say to that.

"Can I come in or are you just going to yell at me?" I say, half smiling at her.

She pouts and folds her arms. "I haven't decided yet."

But she lets me past her and pulls me by the hand into the living room.

"Hello, darling."

Mom is standing up, looking tense.

"Hi Mom."

"You look so tired, darling. I'm sure you must have been working too hard – whatever you're doing."

"I'm ok, mom. Don't worry about me."

She frowns. "I'm your mother, Christian. It's in my job description to worry about you. And Mia and Elliot."

"But Christian is way more trouble than me, isn't he, mom?" insists Mia, making mom laugh.

I'm just beginning to relax when dad walks in. The temperature in the room falls several degrees.

"Christian."

"Dad."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"I'd like to talk to you, in my study."

"Not now, Cary," says mom, a note of urgency in her voice. Dad ignores her and I think he's right: we need to do this.

"It's ok, mom," I say and stand up to follow him into his study.

He waves me to a seat and he leans back in his chair, trying to look casual, but he can't hide the tension in his jaw.

"I've had a letter from your personal tutor at Harvard."

_Professor Mathers?_ I frown. Why's she writing to dad? Oh, because I dropped out, I guess.

"It… disturbed me."

That seems like an odd choice of words. I stare at him impassively, watching him flounder, trying to get to the point.

"She was worried about you: your sudden decision to… leave, but… more than that…"

He pauses and takes a deep breath.

"Her concern alludes to certain 'risk-taking behaviour'. I would very much like to know what she means by that."

_Fuck!_ "Perhaps you'd better ask Professor Mathers."

"I'm asking you, Christian. Are you… all right?"

"I'm fine, dad. More than fine. I've bought a company – telecoms – and, it's going well. You don't need to worry about me."

"Christian! I'm your father; of course I worry about you. That won't change, no matter how old you are. I… I haven't shown this letter to your mother. I didn't want her to worry. If you could just… reassure me that you're really ok… I don't understand why you dropped out of Harvard, and then, this letter… I thought it was… like before… all the fighting…"

He passes his hand over his face as if he's trying to wave away the memory. I feel like such a shit doing this to him. Again.

"Dad, I don't know what to tell you. Harvard wasn't for me. I'm fine – better than fine – I'm doing what I want… what I _need_ to be doing. I'm _good_ at this, dad."

"Really? You're not just telling me what you think I need to hear?"

"No." I frown. I don't like repeating myself.

"And this 'risk-taking behaviour'?"

"Professor Mathers is mistaken."

He looks relieved but I can tell he's not completely convinced.

"Is that it?" I want this over now.

He looks uncomfortable.

"Well, there is one other thing…"

I can feel the hold on my temper, tenuous at the best of times, begin to fray.

"I… I wanted to apologise for what I said to you last time you were here. Your mom has hauled me over the coals," he smiles fondly, "and that's not a comfortable place to be, trust me. But she was right: the things I said…" his expression darkens. "They were cruel. And they were untrue. We'll always be here for you, Christian. I hope you know that."

The emotion in the room is more than I can take. I stand suddenly. "We're fine, dad. Tell mom."

He nods. He understands I don't do emotion. Can't. I leave.

I'm not surprised to see Mia waiting outside looking anxious.

"Did you and dad make it up? Did you, Christian? Please!"

She wraps her arms around my waist and leans her head against my chest. "I've missed you, Christian. I'm so mad at you. Mom, too."

"Is there anyone who isn't mad at me?"

She giggles. "I don't think so. But I'm glad you're here. Will you play for me later?"

"I don't know, Mia. I don't think I'll be staying that long."

She pouts. "You're so _mean_, Christian. How can you be so heartless?"

And her words pierce me because deep down I know she's right: I don't have a heart. So why does it ache so badly when she says these things to me?

We manage to have a pleasant family dinner. Mom steers the conversation to neutral territory. There's just one awkward moment when Mia mentions Elena.

"Everyone's saying that Linc caught her with another man!" says Mia, in a hushed but excited tone.

"Mia, really!" says Mom.

"Lily heard it from her mom, so it _must_ be true! She and Elena, Mrs Lincoln, are totally BFFs. Do you think it's anyone we know, someone from Bellevue?"

I nearly choke and quickly grab a glass of water.

"I'm sure it's all nonsense, darling," says mom, coolly. "We don't perpetuate gossip in this house. And it's certainly _not_ suitable conversation for the dinner table."

_Thank fuck for that._

Elliot turns up just as we're drinking coffee. His news takes over: he's quit his job and started his own company – Grey Construction. Mia hurls herself at him and dad smiles his first genuine smile of the evening and offers him a toast. I'm glad the focus of attention has moved away from me.

Before I leave mom manages to talk me into coming to the annual fundraiser on Saturday. It's kind of a tradition. In the interest of keeping up the entente with my dad, I agree and Mia beams. I've always been her date for these events and she's not ready to give me up yet.

But I've had enough family time now so I leave quickly. After all the shit this evening, the turmoil of an emotional fucking rollercoaster, I really need to let off some steam and there's only one way I know how to do that.

Back at my apartment, I change into jeans and a T-shirt and head out to the club.

The maitre d' recognises me.

"Hey there, Bronze," she says, her eyes lighting up as if I've just waved a handful of dollar bills in front of her. "I was beginning to think we wouldn't see you again. But here you are. So what can we do for you tonight? Young, old, blonde, brunette? We even have a redhead tonight, like you, handsome. And there's a couple of guys who'd be lining up for a man of your… talents. What's your poison, Bronze?"

"No guys."

"Really? They could pay well. Very well."

I shake my head, irritated.

"Ok, just women then."

"Just brunettes. I like brunettes."

"You got it, Bronze, although there'll be some disappointed mommas in the house. Follow me."

She leads me through the pulsing crowds of dancers and drinkers to the private rooms, reserved for clients with my own specialist tastes.

The first room she takes me to a woman with short brown hair is lying across a chaise longue. Her eyes look glassy and unfocussed.

"What's she taken?"

"Just a little chill pill, Bronze. Nothing for you to worry about. She's just kinda new to the scene, needed a little something to take her through, you dig?"

I shake my head.

"What's the matter, Bronze?"

"No beginners. No fucking amateurs who are going to safeword on me after two fucking minutes."

A reluctant smile crosses her hard face.

"You want dark, Bronze? We cater for all tastes here."

She carries on down the corridor, passing a fire door that's been chained shut. A small part of my brain registers annoyance that such a basic safety precaution and fire regulation has been flouted but a much greater part of me is on fire with need and my cock is straining against my jeans just being in the club.

At the end of the gloomy corridor she points me towards a cell-like room.

"Fifty-seven varieties, Bronze," she says, a cold smile underlining the hard planes of her face.

The woman inside is in her fifties. I don't realise that she's naked at first, because her body is covered in tattoos. Her brown hair hangs in a long braid over one shoulder.

"Missy, this is Bronze," says the maitre d' introducing us. "He says he likes it dark: you interested."

Missy stares at me and I feel my ever-present anger flaring up at her insolent gaze as her eyes rake across my body.

"I don't know, Sarah, he looks kinda young. How long you been in the scene, Bronze?"

"None of your fucking business," I snarl at her.

And then she smiles. _She fucking smiles at me_. And my fury boils over; I know my eyes are blazing at her. Her smile fades.

"Yes," she whispers.

The maitre d' closes the door quietly and I pace towards the woman, bringing her to her knees with the look on my face.

Two hours later and bathed in sweat, I dress slowly. Some of the tension of the past 24 hours has been eased. I've replaced the two canes, flogger and baton in the rack and I've knotted the used condoms and put them in my pocket. I'm careful: always careful. Elena taught me this; some women will take the man's sperm to use later if they liked the guy. I'm not having any of my little bastards running around, taking my fucked up DNA with them. So I'm careful.

Missy is still sprawled breathless over the whipping bench. I don't like her tattoos; I want to see the changes I've painted on her skin with the cane, not that gothic shit she's covered in.

I retrieve my CD of Philip Glass and leave the room without looking back. This time I'm not surprised to see the maitre d' waiting for me. She peers into the room.

"Another satisfied customer, Bronze. You know, you could earn a lot more with an exclusive contract to this club. I could have clients lining up around the block for you."

I'm amused. Who knew there were so many people as fucked up as me in a city the size of Seattle?

"You interested, handsome?"

"No."

She looks annoyed.

"Look, I don't like to be played, Bronze. Which stable are you from? I know you're trying to steal my clients. Is it Carter? O'Brien?"

Before I can reply, two heavies block the entrance to the corridor and I remember the pad-locked fire exit. If I want to leave, I'm going to have to go through them. Suddenly my dad's words about 'risk-taking behaviour' are ringing in my ears. The thought almost makes me smile.

"I'm freelance. I don't fuck for anyone."

"Then I _strongly_ suggest you consider your position," she says, a dangerous edge in her voice. "I can offer you good terms, Bronze. You won't find a better offer, I can promise you that." Her tone softens slightly. "Why don't you come to my office to discuss it?"

My brain is working at top speed, adrenaline spiking through me. The corridor is just too narrow: if I try to get past the minders, I'm going to be seriously fucked. I decide to play along.

"Ok. Your office."

She smiles in triumph and I follow her back along the corridor and past the heavies. She leads me alongside the dance floor with the innocent bondage fashionistas strutting their stuff. I see my chance and take it. Before she realises what's happening, I'm across the floor and out the door, fucking fast. No way her people will be able to catch me now.

When I'm four blocks away I slow to a jog. I know I can't go back there and from what she's told me, the club scene for someone of my specialist needs is sewn up between three providers. No, I can't risk that. I'll have to come up with another solution. There must be others like me out there; others who don't do the clubs. If I could find myself a sub on my own terms. Like Elena did. No. _Not like Elena did; never like that_.

Well, I _am_ a fucking genius: I should be able to work something out.

I stare with vague distaste at my reflection in the small mirror in my apartment. I decide to leave the black bowtie loose until I get to Bellevue.

Mia has been phoning me hourly all day to make sure that I come. It's fucking irritating: I said I'd be there. She's even managed to arrange for me to drive Elliot and his latest girlfriend so that I have to turn up – her words. But it also means that I'll have to stay late until Elliot is ready to leave – whenever the fuck that will be.

A grudging smile of admiration crosses my face. Mia! She'll be a helluva businesswoman one day. She's the only person I know who can make me do something I don't want to do. Especially now Elena…

Elena is out of hospital. Mom told me that she's staying at her home while Linc is using a hotel in the city until the divorce is settled, which won't be long. Apparently it's all been sorted 'amicably'; which, reading between the lines, means that Elena won't hand Linc to the cops for fucking her over and she'll get the house and whatever settlement she can screw out of him. In return, he lets her go quietly.

Having thoroughly soured my mood with angry thoughts, I'm in a vile temper when I pull up outside Elliot's apartment. I press the intercom.

"Hey, little bro, come on up!"

"Elliot! Just get your ass down here; we have to go now or we'll be late."

Instead he buzzes me in and I sigh. Elliot is chronically unable to be on time. And he knows it makes me pissed. Or, in the case of this evening, more pissed.

His date opens the door and I watch dispassionately as her pupils dilate and her cheeks flush. _Get a grip, for fuck's sake; it's just a face._ I wonder if Elliot will ever go for a woman whose IQ is greater than her shoe size.

"Hello, I'm Christian Grey, Elliot's brother."

I hold out my hand for her to shake and she takes it limply, an irritating simpering giggle escaping from her over-lipsticked mouth.

"I'm Connie. Elliot's told me _all _about you."

_I seriously doubt that_.

It turns out that she's an intern at one of the companies Elliot is hoping to do business with. I shake my head: I thought Elliot would have known better than to mix business and pleasure. But that's Elliot for you: fuck first, think later.

For a quarter of an hour I have to listen to her drivel about what a 'fun' city Seattle is; although not apparently as 'fun' as Santa Barbara or her home town of San Luis Obispo which is 'totally fun'. _Christ!_ If I have any more 'fun' this evening, I'll have to slit my wrists.

By the time Elliot hauls his ass out of the bathroom, dressed and shaved at last, my feelings are becoming homicidal. How can he _listen_ to this female? Sure, she's attractive – in a bovine sort of way – but, dear god, she's dull.

"Hey, little bro! You've met my gal?"

"Oh, Elliot, he's so sweet!" she gushes. "You know, my roommate, Monica? She'd just _adore_ him. We could double date!"

I turn my gaze to Elliot and, to his credit, he looks uncomfortable.

"Er, Christian doesn't date," he says shortly.

"Why not?" she says, refusing to take the hint.

"Ok, time to go or we'll be late," says Elliot, changing the subject with the subtlety of a truck.

As we walk out I hear Connie asking Elliot if I'm gay whilst he tries to hush her up. It's almost funny.

When we get to my car Elliot helps Connie into the back seat and slides in next to her. Like a real chauffeur I turn up the music and try to avoid looking in the rear view mirror for the 25 minutes it takes to drive to Bellevue.

By the time we get there Connie is pink and breathless and her carefully applied lipstick is smudged. Elliot grins at me and I stare back sourly.

"You need to fix your tie, little bro," he smirks.

I raise an eyebrow and he wanders off into the crowds of the well heeled, Connie fluttering beside him.

Everywhere I see strangers roaming the grounds of my family home: the men are dressed in severe black whilst the women sparkle jewel-like in the gathering dusk. I feel more alone than usual but the sensation is not uncomfortable. I watch.

"Christian!"

Mia's foghorn voice cuts through my reveries.

"You came!"

I roll my eyes at her. "I said I would. Besides, you worked it so I had to bring Elliot… and his date."

"Oh, what's she like? Is she pretty? I bet she's pretty – and blonde! He always likes blondes. Dance with me, Christian, please! Dad says he's too busy and Elliot never dances with me."

"So I'm third choice?"

She punches me lightly on the chest.

I bow slightly. "Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, Miss Grey?"

I offer her my arm.

"I'd be delighted, gallant sir," she says laughing.

And we head off to the dance floor that's been erected under a large gazebo. Before we get there we're accosted by Lily.

"Hi Christian!" she says boldly.

"Lily."

Mia sighs theatrically. "Talk later, Lily."

"Oh. Ok."

I lead Mia towards the other dancers who are moving to the big band sounds of 'Fly me to the moon'.

"You've hurt her feelings," says Mia.

"Who?"

"You know who! Lily!"

"I didn't say anything to her!"

"That's why." Mia sighs again. "She's not that bad, Christian, and she's my friend."

"That's why I said 'hello' to her," I reply calmly.

"Well, the least you could do is ask her to dance."

I feel the ever present anger start to burn. "No."

"Why not?"

"You know why, Mia."

She pouts but doesn't press the point.

We dance in silence, each lost in our thoughts. I'll dance with my mother and with Mia. Nobody else. Except Elena. God, we used to dance. The memory makes me smile and I feel Mia relax in my arms.

"See! I told you you'd have fun if you came tonight. I'm so glad you did, Christian. I miss you."

Then one of our father's partners from the law firm interrupts and Mia dances away in his arms. I'm alone again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

For three hours today I was a millionaire.

SIC is making good money – very good. The innovations that Ros and her team have developed are market leaders, no thanks to the useless fucker, Marco Gambatti, who purports to be head of sales. Well, no longer.

Part of the work of being Managing Director is to know who can make the grade and who is dead weight. Gambatti is dead weight and, as of yesterday afternoon, he's out of here. This company has been carrying him for years, but as golf buddy to the owner's son, he thought he was untouchable. He wasn't. Gambatti is out, and so is the head of IT, David Rintz. He's not an asshole like Gambatti, he just hasn't been able to keep up with the way the world has changed. There are a lot of guys like him. But as of midnight on Thursday, I am the sole owner of SIC – and I can fire who the fuck I like.

I had to make a deal with old man Roberts to keep on his useless son for six months, for appearance sake, but that won't change how I do business. I'll just sideline him; he can sit in his office and play table golf for all I fucking care. But first I'm going to dispense some joy.

I punch the intercom to my PA.

"Susan: I want coffee for three in my office in ten minutes. Get Ros Bailey and Barney Sullivan in here, too."

"Yes, Mr Grey."

Since I expressed my views on her abilities as a PA, she's upped her game. Now someone, ie. me, has forced her to give a shit about her job, she's not a half-bad assistant. Not my first choice, but she'll do for now.

The coffee arrives at the same time as Ros and Barney.

"Good morning, Mr Grey," says Ros breezily.

She's not intimidated by me – she's the only one.

Barney shuffles in behind her and mutters something unintelligible. He's very different when he's talking about his work, so I don't mind.

"Ros, Barney – I want you two to be the first to know that as of 48 hours ago, I am the sole owner of SIC."

I wave away their surprise and congratulations.

"Barney, David Rintz has retired so I'm making you Head of IT."

He's speechless, one hand frozen en route to scratching his ear, and I can't help a small smile escaping.

"Ros, I'm making you up to Director. You report to me now and no-one else."

Her smile of surprise and delight is genuine, then it falls slightly. "What about Mr Roberts Jr?"

"On the record, he's another director of SIC; off the record, he's irrelevant and will be out of here in six months – your ears only."

She nods her understanding; Barney is still sitting frozen in shock and disbelief. I wonder briefly if I should have asked Susan to bring brandy rather than coffee.

"We're going to make SIC go places," I say fiercely.

Ros stands up languidly and pours the drinks; I think she's worried that Barney has gone into shock, too, because she puts four sugars in his coffee and places the cup in his hand.

"Thank you for this opportunity, Mr Grey," she says.

Barney nods rapidly, a slow smile spreading across his face. At last! "Yeah, bitchin'!" he says, then blushes furiously.

And for the first time in a long time, I laugh out loud.

When SIC started making serious money, I approached old man Roberts with my buy-out plan. He knew it was the best deal he was going to get for his feckless waster of a son, so he took it. I paid him off and now own 100% of SIC. So I was a millionaire for about three hours before the sale was signed, sealed and delivered, and I'd paid off Roberts.

But I've already got my eye on another broken company – and this time the bank won't hesitate in lending me the money I need. Not only do I now have a track record and bankable assets, they know their money will make a good return.

So this morning I was a millionaire – now I'm $5 million in debt. It's a fucking head rush and I love it.

I leave work early – well, after 8pm, but that's early for me. I'm meeting Elena for dinner. It'll be the first time I've seen her since… since before the divorce. We both thought it would be a good idea to stay away from each other and avoid giving Linc any more ammo.

I suspect that I'm being watched: a couple of times I've seen a dark blue estate car in the staff parking lot. I know it doesn't belong to anyone here, so I'm careful. And I don't want to call out whoever is watching me: better they see nothing and have nothing to report.

Elena has chosen a small, intimate Spanish restaurant. Neither of us has been here before. I came on foot, making it almost impossible for anyone to tail me without me knowing. She's waiting for me when I arrive. God, she's beautiful. Her hair is a pale, silvery halo around her head and she's wearing a thigh-skimming black wrap dress. I don't know what I expected – something to say that she's been through hell, but she looks… she looks like Elena.

She smiles when she sees me and offers me her cheek.

"Christian! How lovely. You look well."

"And you, Elena."

There's an awkward pause. A thousand images cascade through my mind: dancing, fucking, talking… beatings… many beatings. She's taught me so much – so much about myself.

"How are you?" she says quietly.

"Good, Elena. Really good. You?"

"Doing better. Now things are settled with Linc, it's easier."

"I'm sorry…" but she interrupts me.

"I hear you're doing great things." She raises a delicate eyebrow. "Is it working out how you planned?"

I nod. "Yes, pretty much."

She smiles. "I told you! I knew you'd be great at this, Christian. You always do well. You're a very special person."

I frown. I don't like her talking like this. It makes me feel… uncomfortable. "I've got a good team now. That helps."

"How very humble of you!"

She's laughing at me and I can't help giving her a rueful smile. It feels good talking to someone who knows all my secrets, all my flaws, all my limitations. She's the only one.

I relax and tell her about SIC and about my plans for the new company.

"You know, you really should change the name," she says casually.

"What?"

"To Grey Independent Communications. Let the world know that you're coming." She shrugs. "I would."

The thought had crossed my mind and I'd dismissed it, but as she says it I think, _Well, why not?_ I find I like the idea: GIC.

The wine waiter returns with a second bottle of Chablis. He's a little too attentive to Elena and it makes me pissed. Elena smirks at me. She knows that I know that she knows. She sees everything.

As we finish the meal I'm feeling off balance again, anger pulsing through me. _Fuck! I need to control this_.

Elena throws me completely with her next question.

"So, when shall we resume your training?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your Dom training. We were… interrupted."

I stare at her and a feeling akin to revulsion unnerves me. "I… I don't think of you like that anymore, Elena."

Her surprise and displeasure are evident.

"Oh?"

I swallow and close my eyes. "Seeing you in hospital… so… broken. I can't be responsible for anything like that. Ever again."

She sighs. "You weren't responsible, Christian. It wasn't your fault: it was inevitable. And… you weren't the only… diversion I had."

She's shocked me and a cruel smile plays on her lips. I thought what I'd felt… what I still feel for her… is love. But seeing her like this, playing with me, taunting me, I feel nothing but anger.

"Have I shocked you, Christian?" she laughs.

"Surprised me, yes. But that's all."

"All? Really?"

"There'll be no more… training, Elena. Of any sort."

There's a pause, a beat, before she leans back and says, "I see. Have you met someone else?"

I hesitate: this really is none of her fucking business, but honesty with Elena is a habit.

"No. I tried the clubs – it didn't work out."

"So… what's next? A man like you has _needs_, Christian."

I shrug. The truth is I don't know. I haven't had the time to really think about it. I run every morning and evening and I work _a lot_. There's been no time for anything else. But just hearing her say the words has my cock hardening against my will. She's always been able to do this to me: from the very first moment I met her.

She smiles. "Well, I may yet be able to help you, Christian. A… friend of mine… has set up a new service for people with our specialised tastes. It's discreet, all the members are by invitation only and, for a reasonable fee, introductions can be made. How does that sound?"

I'm surprised and intrigued. "Tell me more."

By the time I call the waiter for the check, I'm feeling excited by Elena's offer. It could well be the answer to my problem – although until this evening, I was barely aware that there was anything missing in my life.

I pay and am standing to help Elena with her coat before I remember the reason we were meeting tonight.

"This is for you."

She looks pleased, and then surprised when I hand her an envelope. She reads the figure on the check I've just given her and her eyes open wide with surprise.

"So much!"

I shrug. "It's the $100,000 you loaned me, plus interest, plus something to… we're even now Elena; I don't owe you anything."

She looks me in the eye. "I understand, Christian. Thank you for dinner. We must do it again sometime – as friends."

"Yes, I'd like that. Take care of yourself, Elena."

"Oh, by the way. Happy birthday for tomorrow."

She kisses me briefly and leaves.

_Fucking birthday_. I hate birthdays.

"Don't be so grumpy, Christian!" bawls Mia. "You'll love the surprise we've got planned."

"I don't like surprises," I reply, uncharitably.

My family have insisted on driving me. Elliot has smugly refused to tell me anything. _Bastard_. And he's also cried off for today. I'm meeting him for a drink tonight but I've had to promise the day to my family. I have no idea where we're going and it makes me pissed.

So I'm intrigued and surprised to see that we've driven up to a site that looks like an abandoned industrial estate. A sign says Seattle Area Soaring Society.

"Surprise!" yells Mia. "We've booked you a flying lesson! You'll love it, I know you will!"

I can't help smiling at her enthusiasm and it does sound kinda cool.

An hour later I've had the intro, the safety talk and I'm strapped in to a sailplane that looks like it's seen better days. But I don't care because I have this enormous fucking grin plastered across my face as we bounce down the field.

The feeling is indescribable as we glide over fields and I can see the city in the distance. I've never felt so free, except perhaps when I've been sailing alone. My teacher talks me through the basics and lets me have the rudder, explaining about wind speeds, thermals, ridge lift and leeways. The time passes so quickly, I can't believe it when I'm told the hour is up and we have to go back to the airfield.

Mia comes running up and throws herself at me.

"How was it, Christian? Did you love it? Did you?"

I kiss the top of her head. "Amazing! Just fu… just amazing!"

She smiles and hugs me tightly.

"Mom and dad will be so happy," she says softly.

Happy? Is that how I feel? I don't know. But I do know that I'm going to do this again. And soon.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Grey Independent Communications was launched today – or rather SIC was rebranded. It feels pretty fucking good to have the company in my name.

Yeah, yeah, one giant fucking ego trip, but it has a purpose beyond that: it's my calling card in the business world. I've had the marketing team working overtime getting the launch materials right: website, seeding the business forums with updates, new logo, mission statement – all the usual bullshit. Important bullshit: to make sure all the staff are working for the same goal and customers know who we are and what we stand for – _what_ _I stand for_.

And in the meantime, I've quietly bought company number two, a small but interesting cell phone manufacturer. Their marketing is frankly last fucking century but even so they've got good sales because they've got a good product. Their overheads, however, are too high and spending is out of control. They're losing money every month. I've lost count of the businesses I've read about going to the wall because they forgot the key mantra: sales are vanity, profit is sanity. If you don't make a profit, you may as well pack up and go home and put the entire labor force into unemployment. So I bought WA Cell Phones for a song, yeah a five million dollar song. But my business plan says that in six months, it'll be pulling in an annual net profit of $1.9 million. Bring it on! I'm rebranding it as Grey Cells. Yeah, yeah, I know, but it made me smile, and not much does that – I don't have the time.

I've had drinks with Elliot twice in the last month and I've promised Mia I'll take her to the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater at the weekend. It's kind of an annual thing just the two of us do for her birthday. I take her into the city for dinner, then we go and see a show. I prefer opera, but she likes dance. Whatever.

Other than that, I've been working and getting in a couple of runs a day. I need to find a kick boxing club near where I live, or maybe near the office would be better, because I _really_ feel the need to kick some shit out of someone, and the staff are out of bounds. Pity. I thank my lucky stars that I found Ros: she knows what she's doing and she can keep up. She'll run GIC while I whip the new employees into shape. _Wish I fucking could_. But I mustn't think along those lines: I haven't had time to do anything about finding somewhere I can be a Dom, and I haven't responded to Elena's offer. I need some… space from her.

When I think about her, which I do too much, I see her broken in the hospital, knowing that I was responsible for that, at least in part. Linc has a lot to answer for, but Elena doesn't want me to touch him. I'll respect her wishes, but if he lays one finger on her again, I won't be responsible for my actions.

I suspect she still wants to sub for me, and tempting as the idea is, I know it's not a good one. Better that we stay friends, if that's what we are. My head is so fucked up, it's hard to think about this shit.

Mom has been dropping hints that I should find a new therapist to talk through all my shit. I don't need a fucking shrink, I need a fucking sub. That's all the _therapy_ I need.

And, as if thinking about her has conjured her up, Elena texts me…

* Have proposition for you. R u free this weekend? *

Not really. I work. All the time. But I'm intrigued, as Elena knew I would be.

I get home – or rather back to the apartment that I see for a few hours each night – and change into my sweats for a run. I want to work, but I need to run. First, I call Elena.

"Hello, Christian, you got my message then?"

"Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't be calling."

"Don't be so testy! I've got something that might interest you."

"I'm listening." _Christ, she likes to string it out_.

"A friend of a friend is hosting a _special party _at a private house out near Olympia. Very discreet. I believe the host is a district judge. I thought you might enjoy playing out a couple of scenes, as a Dom, of course, if you're available. I've already signed up – as a Domme, naturally."

_I really want to say yes_, but I've got a lot of work to do. The needs of one part of me, and the needs of the other seem to be mutually exclusive, but maybe Elena does have a solution.

"Maybe. When would we have to leave?"

"People will be arriving throughout Saturday afternoon. There'll be a buffet dinner, very civilized, and then people just… do what comes naturally." She laughs a light, silvery sound. "Or unnaturally, of course. We can leave anytime, although I believe most stay for breakfast, or dessert, depending on your stamina and point of view. You never had a problem with stamina, did you, Christian?"

I know she's taunting me, but I don't care. The idea is really attractive – except for the bit about staying for breakfast. I _so_ don't want to see my sub over the breakfast table. Although there's something about a morning fuck that's a real turn on.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Christian; you know I don't like waiting."

I don't need to think about it anymore. "Ok, I'm in. But not fucking breakfast."

"I rather like fucking before breakfast; it gives me an appetite… as you may remember, Christian."

"I'm too busy for fucking memory lane, Elena. I'll pick you up at six."

"No, Christian. I'll pick _you _up at 6.30pm. I'll be in the city looking at possible salon locations. I presume you'd rather I picked you up from your apartment?"

"No. My car or forget it."

"Oh, Christian! Are you trying to order me around? That's so sweet!"

"Fuck off, Elena."

"Don't be a grump, Christian, it doesn't suit you. Fine. I'll be at your apartment at 6.30pm and we can go in your car. Happy?"

"Delirious."

I hang up, irritated but excited, too. Now I _really_ need that run.

There's something about running at night, when the streets are emptying and moving into silence. I pass offices and shops, pools of light, glowing like jewels. I try not to catch my image in their windows, but when I do I seem a pale reflection of a person. It feels like this is the real me – a shadow travelling through the darkness. I like feeling invisible. So much of my life I've had people staring at me, trying to analyse me, wondering why I'm so fucked up and why the pretty packaging doesn't match the ugliness inside.

I see my family watching me when they think my mind is elsewhere, like when I'm playing the piano. My mother stares at me and her expression is so sad I can't bear to see it. I know there's love in that look, but it's only because she doesn't know the real me. She can _never_ know the real me: it would break her. I sometimes think my dad senses the otherness; there's a look of doubt in his eyes, as if he sees some of the darkness. Perhaps it's the difference between their two professions: mom wants to mend broken people, people like me; dad wants to know how their mind works. If he knew how _my _mind worked, he'd never want to speak to me again. I wouldn't blame him. I'm fifty shades of fucked up and I don't want to drag my family into my darkness. They deserve better than me. If… when I achieve in business, then, maybe, I can deserve their love. It's a long shot. I know I deserve nothing.

I run until my brain numbs. The cops round here are used to seeing me late at night, or maybe it's early in the morning. They don't bother me anymore. I got stopped a few times when I first moved into my apartment. Now they just ignore me: another crazy guy who can't sleep. Yeah, that's about right.

_Saturday_

I've been working at home all day, except for a brief run earlier and I've bought a set of free weights to use at the apartment. I'm just thinking about taking a shower and getting ready when the intercom buzzes. It's only 5.45pm. Elena is too fucking early. It makes me pissed.

"What?"

"Nice greeting, little bro!" Elliot's voice sounds tinny through the cheap speaker.

"What do you want Elliot?"

"To come in, for a start!"

I sigh, but press the entry button anyway. I can hear him thundering up the stairs. _What does he want?_

"Hey, little bro. How's it hanging?"

_Christ! He talks like a fucking juvenile sometimes!_

"What do you want, Elliot?"

"Truth? Mom sent me to see you. No-one's heard from you for weeks."

"Not true; I'm taking Mia to the ballet for her birthday tomorrow. I texted her."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, mom wanted to see evidence of a body. So here I am."

"Great. You've seen me. I'm busy."

"Don't be such a fucking shit, Christian. Mom and dad are worried about you."

"Oh for fucks sake! I'm fine! I've been working, running a business. You know. I need to put in the hours." I stare at him angrily. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Yeah, I do know, as it happens. But all work and no play makes you a dull dumb-ass. Come on, I'm taking you for a drink."

"I meant what I said, Elliot. I'm busy. As it happens, I'm going out and I need to get ready."

"Oh? Going where? Who with?"

_Elliot is so fucking curious._

"Nowhere you'd know, with no-one you know." My reply is terse.

I can tell he's deciding whether to risk arguing with me but thinks better of it.

He chews his lip. "Mom asked me to remind you… to be safe. Don't bite my head off, I'm just passing on the message. She made me promise." He rolls his eyes.

I can tell what he's thinking: bad shit, rent boys, all that 'risk-taking behavior' that dad thinks I'm into thanks to Professor Mathers' fucking letter. _Well, maybe the 'bad shit' bit is true_.

"I'm fine, Elliot. Now will you just please fuck off?"

"You're a real asshole sometimes, you know that?"

"Yeah. I know. Sorry."

"Whatever. I told mom I'd come and see the corpse: job done. Laters."

_More true that you know, big brother; I am a dead man walking_.

His footsteps echo in the stairwell and I hear the door slam downstairs. _Yes, I have to keep them away. They can't know the truth about me_.

I hurry to shower: Elena will be here soon. My hair is still wet and I've only just pulled on a pair of jeans when the intercom buzzes again.

"Good evening, Christian. It's not like you to be late. Are you safewording already?"

"Elena. You're as amusing as ever. Actually, you just missed Elliot. Thank god. I'm ready now."

"I'm very fond of Elliot."

_Yeah, yeah. Everyone loves Elliot. Why wouldn't they? He's not fifty shades of fucked up._

I ignore Elena's comment. I know she's trying to wind me up; I just don't know why. Well, I do: because she can, because she likes seeing me mad.

The drive to Olympia takes just over an hour. Elena is pleased with the salon sites she's seen in Seattle and has agreed to take over the lease on a unit in the Escala district. It's an area that's pretty smart and trendy: a good location for her. I wouldn't mind living there one day, in fact, I plan to.

The directions she's been given take us on a quiet side road and then along a turn-off into a gated driveway, framed by ancient cedars. A quarter of a mile down the road, a stately manor house of golden standstone sweeps into view. Its classic design and Georgian proportions are pleasing to look at. And as for the setting, it's beautiful: tranquil and stately, as if the whole estate just drifted in from an English village in another century. Hardly the setting for what's going to happen inside. The juxtaposition appeals to me.

And now we're here, I feel the anticipation building up in me and I know Elena feels the same: I recognise the gleam in her eye, the tensing of her abdominal muscles. Yes, I know that look well.

An elegant woman in her late fifties opens the door. She's wearing evening dress and real diamonds at her throat and ears.

"Elena, darling! How wonderful to see you. And this is… your friend?"

"Beatrice, how charming you look! This is Christian."

"Good evening, Christian. How nice to meet you. Please, call me Bea."

"Bea, it's very kind of you to invite me." _This is so weird! If she offers me a fucking sherry I might die laughing._

"Not at all, do come in. We've given our maid the evening off: I'm sure you understand."

"Darling Bea, of course!" says Elena with a smile.

She leads us into what presumably is the dining room, except the table has been pushed to one side and the chairs removed. Instead of silverware, the dining table has been laid, if that's the correct term, with an interesting choice of floggers, canes, whips, chains, cuffs, shackles, spreader bars and various toys in different shapes, sizes, colors and textures. Hmm, interesting. I see several of my weapons of choice on display. Just looking at them, thinking about how I could use them makes my cock twitch with anticipation. _Yes, this is what I need, what I've been missing_.

I count 17 adults, not including our hostess, Elena and myself. I'm the youngest person by about a decade, but that doesn't bother me. There are men and women of pretty much every age, shape, size and color. It's an intriguing tableau and diverting to decide who are the Dominants and who are the subs.

But the really fucking funny thing is that everyone there is dressed in bondage. Except the hostess. She probably chose to wear a dress in the event that the DHL delivery guy turned up and had a coronary. Canapés have been laid out on a delicate sideboard along with red and white wine, champagne and a choice of spirits.

"Everyone," says our hostess, "meet Elena and Christian: they'll be joining our little party tonight. Well, we're all here now, please feel free to mingle – and do help yourselves to drinks."

She takes Elena's elbow, "Did you want to change into something less appropriate, Elena, dear?"

Elena smiles coolly. "I'd really rather find a playmate, Bea, darling."

I can see that Beatrice isn't pleased, but she's smart enough not to fuck with Elena.

"Of course, Elena, as you wish. Christian? A drink, perhaps?"

"Thank you, Beatrice. A white wine, please."

She pours a glass of Viognier. It's not bad, although a little flowery for my taste. Holst's _Mars_ is playing in the background: someone has a sense of humor.

"So, Christian. We're delighted to have you here – in fact I'm rather looking forward to having you here my myself," croons our hostess.

She raises her hand towards my chest and I take a step away. I see surprise and confusion warring on her face.

"Is there a problem?"

"I prefer not to be touched – unless I say so."

"How exciting! I shall look forward to it."

She moves away to talk to someone else and I can see Elena watching me with amusement. She's the only one who's ever touched me: I didn't like it then and I sure as fuck don't have to tolerate it now.

Across the elegant room a woman in her early 40s catches my eye. She's of medium height with a full, curvaceous figure, a bandage dress with cut-out sections flattering her curves. But what attracts me is the coil of mahogany hair that hangs over one shoulder. _I'd like to wrap that hair around my wrist and pull – hard_.

I cross the room, never breaking eye contact.

"Hello, it's nice to meet someone new," she says softly. "I'm Siobhan… and you're Christian."

"Good evening, Siobhan."

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Not yet, but I hope to soon."

She laughs quietly. "My! You're impatient, but I like that. I don't know _who_ you are, but I can see _what _you are. Would you like to see my room?"

"Yes, I'd like that, Siobhan."

We're the first pair to leave the dining room but others are not far behind us; it's as if a rope of pearls has been broken. Or maybe we're swine, with the pearls being cast before us. _Yeah, that's more like it, for fucks sake_.

I sweep up a selection of tools from the table as we leave.

Siobhan leads me up a broad staircase and across a galleried area towards a suite of bedrooms. She pushes open the door to one and flicks on a switch.

The light is soft, muted; the room womb-like and unlike any bedroom I've ever seen. In fact, apart from the fact that it contains a bed, sheathed with silky black sheets, it's nothing like a bedroom. Carabiners hang from one corner and a set of grid-like rails criss-cross the ceiling. _I like it very much indeed_.

"Kneel. By the door."

She turns in surprise at the sound of my voice.

"I said kneel. I won't repeat myself again."

Immediately she does as she's told.

"Don't look at me."

Her eyes drop to the floor. _I don't like people looking at me_.

I remove my jacket, shoes and socks, then undo my cufflinks and pull off my white shirt. I'm already getting hard: it's been weeks, but I want to savor the moment.

I pad towards her, my feet silent on the thick carpet.

"Stand up."

She uses the wall to climb awkwardly to her feet.

"Turn around."

Slowly I pull down the zip on her dress, breathing in the scent of her hair. A shiver runs through her.

"Sshhh..."

I slip the dress down her shoulders, running my fingers across her back, then let the dress slip to the floor.

She's wearing stockings but no panties. I'm disappointed: I like peeling panties off a moist, hot body.

I kneel down behind her and run my tongue gently across her buttocks, holding her hips firmly in my hands. Her skin is warm and dry and pleasing to touch.

"What are your safewords, Siobhan?"

"Am… amber," she stammers, "and red. Sir."

"Ok. Hard limits?"

"Fisting, sir."

"Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

I intend to take my time. Let's see how far I can take the delicious Siobhan. First I need to have her secured.

"I'm going to shackle you to the wall, Siobhan, and then I'm going to get to know you."

"Yes, sir."

**Deleted scene: sorry, but the full scene is on my blog**

**Fifty dash shades dash of dash grey dot me**

I push myself off her and undo the cuffs. She doesn't move. I pull her up into a sitting position and kneel behind her on the bed, rubbing her stiff shoulder muscles. She rolls her neck and blinks sleepily, purring as my fingers knead her.

Then I lay her on the bed and place the sheet over her. She's asleep almost instantly.

I'm pleased to find that the bedroom has a private bathroom. I feel relaxed under the flow of hot water running down my back and think about the last few weeks. Tonight has been ok, but I don't want to waste my time driving to some rich fucker's country house. And I don't like someone else calling the shots. Ideally I should find my own sub. I might have to talk to Elena about the service she mentioned a few weeks ago. That could be the answer.

I walk back into the bedroom to dress. Siobhan is awake and watches me, curled like a cat, her eyes glittering in the muted light.

"That really was spectacular, Christian. Truly! Where have you been all my life – other than at school, of course?" She laughs softly; I see nothing amusing in her comment. "When can I see you again? Soon, I hope."

Her question surprises me.

"I don't think so, Siobhan."

She looks disappointed.

"Why not?"

I shrug. _That really is none of her fucking business._ I finish dressing, replace the cufflinks, and leave the room, closing the door behind me quietly. Sakamoto's piano music is still rippling through the room.

As I walk back down the corridor, I hear the sounds of couples in various stages of orgasmic release. It's rather unpleasant; hearing other people's arousal does nothing for me. No, the whole country house set up isn't for me. I will have to make other arrangements.

The dining room is empty. I wonder how long I'll have to wait for Elena. The feeling is irksome; I _hate _waiting. I eat some of the canapés and find a jug of sparkling mineral water. I'd really like a drink, but I'm not going to be stupid enough to drink and drive. I abhor people who take such foolish risks.

I find a first edition of Lamb's essays lying to one side and find myself pulled into another world. An hour later, the dining room door opens and Elena finally appears.

"Hello, Christian. Have you been enjoying yourself?"

"Not bad, but I'm ready to leave. You?"

"Mmm, also not bad. I think I'll just have a glass of champagne before we go. One gets rather thirsty, don't you find?"

_Sunday_

I pull up at my parents' house and have barely got out of the car when Mia bounces towards me.

"Christian! I'm haven't seen you for _ages!_" and she throws herself at me.

I can't help laughing as I catch her and hug her briefly.

"Are you ready to go? We have a date, I believe!"

She pouts at me, making her look younger than 15. "Aren't you going to at least come in and say 'hi' to mom and dad?"

"Ok, but it'll have to be quick or we won't have time to eat before the show."

She takes my hand and pulls me into the living area. Mom is wearing slacks and an over-sized shirt.

"Christian! How are you, darling? Elliot says you've been busy."

_Fucking Elliot!_

"Yes, pretty busy. How are you, mom?"

She kisses me lightly on the cheek and I know she'd like to hug me. I pull back. Suddenly I'm reminded of Elena and the country house and last night. I don't deserve my mother's love. She shouldn't have a son like me, not even an adopted son; she doesn't deserve it. I can't bear her to touch me and be defiled by everything I am. She's too good, too pure.

I see pain flicker across her face and feel a dull ache where my withered heart rests. Then dad is standing in front of me, his hand extended.

I shake his hand briefly.

"Dad."

"Good to see you, son."

There's a bitter silence.

"We should go, Mia, or we'll be late."

She nods unhappily and she kisses mom and dad goodbye. I sketch a wave from the driveway.

"Why are you so mad at mom and dad?" says Mia, her eyes filling with tears.

How can I explain? I can't. I can't. That's all there is.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

We drive in silence for some time, my thoughts winding like snakes. Beside me, Mia is uncharacteristically quiet.

Eventually she leans forward and turns on the radio: _Toxic _is playing. She turns it up – loud. I know she's trying to provoke me. I stand it as long as I can then switch to the CD: Debussy's _La Mer_.

"I was listening to that, Christian!" she snaps at me.

"No, you weren't. You were just trying to irritate me. Well, it worked. Job done."

She pouts. "It's my birthday; I ought to be able to listen to whatever I like."

I sigh. "Fine. What do you want to listen to? Not Britney, please God."

"This is ok," she shrugs. Mia can't sulk for long. "Where are we going for dinner?"

"There's a great Vietnamese restaurant I've found. They do a mean bún riêu."

She wrinkles her nose. "I hate crab. Can't we go to Pizza Hut?"

_Oh, for fucks sake!_

"If that's what you really want!"

She smirks. "No, I just thought it was the most likely to drive you crazy. I'd like Italian, please."

I can't help smiling at her: she's so annoying!

I park up and lead her into a small, family run Italian restaurant that I've been to a few times. I open the door for her and, after the evening chill of early Autumn, the warmth of the small place is welcoming.

"Bongiorno!" says the owner, a short, dark-haired man with a huge, comedy moustache. "Welcome back, Signor Grey, and your beautiful young lady."

Mia giggles.

"Thank you, Giuseppe. This is my sister, Mia."

"Ah, bellissima Mia! Your usual seat, signor?"

He starts to lead us to a table at the back.

"Can't we sit by the window?" whines Mia. "I like to people-watch."

I frown. I hate being stared at while I'm eating, but it is her birthday, as she's already pointed out.

"Fine, a table at the front, please, Giuseppe."

"Anything for such a beautiful signorina," he says with a flourish worthy of the Hotel Charles Cinque in Paris.

Mia sashays happily to the table, her eyes sparkling.

"And what would the beautiful signorina like to drink?"

"Champagne, please, Giuseppe," she replies.

He smiles. "Such a beautiful young lady should bathe only in champagne, but perhaps a sparkling mineral water or a soda to drink instead?"

I can tell Mia wants to be grumpy but she's still young enough to be dazzled by flattery and I'm grateful that Giuseppe knows how to handle teenage girls.

"And for you, signor? Your usual: Pigato?"

"Not tonight, thank you, Giuseppe. Just a sparkling mineral water."

He hands Mia a menu and she reads it slowly, a small pucker between her eyebrows, evidence of her concentration.

Mia loves good food: it wouldn't surprise me if she did something in that direction. Mom and dad are faintly horrified by the idea. To them being in the restaurant trade means low pay and long hours. They're right, of course, but you've got to use what you're given. Maybe Mia could be a restaurant critic: she's got the critical bit sewn up already.

She orders a tricolore insalata and a seafood linguini. I order olives and rosetta bread with penne marinara.

Then she leans back and fixes me with a determined stare.

"Who did you come here with before?"

"What makes you think I came with anyone?"

"Just so. Who was it?"

"That's none of your business, Mia."

"So you did come with someone. Why won't you tell me, Christian? It is my birthday."

"You've already played that card once; it won't work again." I try a diversionary tactic. "What's been going on in school?"

She rolls her eyes. "Mrs Daniels nearly had a coronary when Lily turned up in an ultra mini skirt. She got sent to Principal Hayden. Her mom was furious."

"That wasn't a very responsible thing for her to do."

Mia scowls. "That's so hypocritical, Christian! At least she wasn't expelled. How many schools did you get kicked out of? Don't think I've forgotten!"

_A fair point: but I don't want my little sister following in my footsteps._

"Lily's a bad influence."

"Christian! You sound like dad! Lily's my friend. I've known her forever. And she _really _likes you."

I try to hide a shudder.

"But she doesn't think you're into girls."

_What?!_

Mia continues, "She thinks you're gay."

_Well, rather that than they know the truth_.

"Are you, Christian?"

"I'm not anything, Mia," I say, frowning. _How true: I'm nothing. I'm no-one_. "Change the topic, please."

For once, she does as I ask and we manage to enjoy the meal in peace. We don't have time for desserts if we're to get to the theatre in time, so I promise to buy her an ice cream during the interval.

As we leave, Giuseppe helps her on with her coat.

"Buona sera e sogni d'oro, bellissima signorina! I hope to see you again soon, Signor Grey; you, your lovely sister and your beautiful mother."

"I didn't know you brought mom here," said Mia. "She didn't say anything?"

_Fuck! _And suddenly I can't get out fast enough because the truth is I've never brought my mother here, only Elena. And now I sure as hell won't be going back.

It's a big day for my new cell phone company, Grey Cells. After three months of calls, letters and emails I've managed to secure a meeting with the premier cell phone retail group west of the Mississippi; if I can nail this deal, the company's future is assured. If not; it's going to be a long, hard slog. My main reason for wanting to go for this company is their concentration on internet sales: I feel sure this is where the market is going to go in the next few years.

Ros is coming with me. She's my head of R&D so she ought to be there. I briefly consider bringing Barney but I don't think he's ready for that sort of high level meeting. It's hard to remember sometimes that he's a year older than me; he seems like such a kid. I don't ever remember acting like he does, talking the way he does, dressing like he just rolled a drunk outside a thrift store. Maybe I did when I was 14 or 15: it's hard to remember back to those days; it's as if they're shrouded in mist and I don't recognise that boy. Probably just as well: it was a miserable fucking time.

I shrug off the miasma of memories and concentrate on the sales pitch.

Ros knocks on the door of my office.

"Ready to go, Christian?"

"Sure, Ros."

I pack up my laptop and pull on my suit jacket. Showtime. There is one weak spot in the deal I'm going to offer them: me. I know they'll look at me and just see a young hotshot who is trying to run before he can walk, although I've never felt young, not like that. I have to persuade them, force them even, to look beyond the face.

"I'll drive."

Ros nods and smiles as we walk into the staff parking lot.

Just as I'm pulling out, her cell rings. "Hi honey. Yeah, we're just leaving… sure, sure… ok… Me, too."

She hangs up. "My girlfriend. Just wishing us luck."

I nod.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?"

I look at her questioningly.

"That I'm a lesbian."

"No. Why should it?" I'm uncomfortable having this sort of personal conversation with her.

She waves a hand vaguely. "It bothers some people."

I don't reply and she lets the subject drop.

The offices of USC Retail are located on a large development of office units and warehouses on the outskirts of Seattle. Gray and anonymous.

"Mr Grey and Ms Bailey to see Mr Whelan," I announce to the receptionist. She blinks rapidly and I'm irritated that I have to repeat our names.

"C-certainly, Mr Grey," she says at last.

I eye her with irritation and she blushes. Ros looks amused but doesn't comment. They don't keep us waiting and we're promptly shown up to the executive offices.

Whelan is a short, choleric man in his fifties. He greets us brusquely, failing to hide his surprise when he sees us – or rather me. He recovers his composure instantly and introduces us to his head of procurement, Ashley Peters. She reminds me of Elena; she has the same feline grace, platinum bob and long, claw-like fingernails. Polished and professional, as cold and smooth as glass.

"Thank you for coming to meet with us, Mr Grey, Ms Bailey. We're certainly interested in considering your proposal. Perhaps you could give us a little more detail."

I launch into my prepared pitch: benefits of smartphone technology, projected sales and market growth, linked updates and apps, our research and development in Seattle, our manufacturing plant in China, unit costs, shipping and lead times, and why Grey Cells are the option they should take. Ros follows on with some of the patented modification and innovations of our product and how we intend to stay ahead of the market.

Our joint presentation is flawless and I can see that Whelan is quietly impressed. Ms Peters is harder to read and I'm distracted thinking of how that, too, reminds me of Elena.

She asks sharp, considered questions, probing each of our statements, testing my business case. At no point have we shown her a chink in our proposal, nothing for her to seize hold of.

Finally she sits back and hands the reins over to Whelan.

"You've given us food for thought, Mr Grey, Miss Bailey. Your product seems impressive and our technical department is impressed. However…" _Here it comes_… "However, we do have some reservations."

"I'm sure we can reassure you," I respond smoothly.

"Despite your impressive achievements with GIC, Mr Grey, I have my doubts about entrusting such a major purchase investment to someone of your youth."

He looks straight at me, not attempting to apologise for his words or to give ground in any way.

"I'm assuming you have no reservations beyond that, Mr Whelan, because I'm well aware that the product we're offering at the unit price we have discussed, is the best deal you've seen for some time."

He raises his eyebrows and hides a small smile.

"I can't make myself older for you, Mr Whelan; Grey Cells is an excellent product – one that will profit your company considerably; one that your shareholders will be glad you purchased. You've seen the evidence for the sales projections which are conservative, as you're well aware. I'm sure you won't need the next 48 hours to consider the offer, but please take the time anyway. I'm sure your Board will be delighted once you apprise them of the situation."

I know I've scored a hit here: he will want to make his decision _before_ he presents it to the Board. He certainly won't want them to influence his decision.

"Well, Mr Grey, you'll have our decision within that time frame."

We shake hands and Ms Peters shows us out.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you, Ms Bailey. Mr Grey, I do hope we meet again; in the meantime, if you have any questions… please do call me." She hands me her card. "This has my private cell on it. Please call – any time."

I frown but put the card in my jacket pocket.

"Good day, Ms Peters."

Outside Ros is ecstatic. "They're going to go for it – definitely. Whelan was blown away! You were fantastic, Christian!"

"You weren't so bad yourself, Ros," I say honestly.

"I didn't like that bitch Peters, though," she muses. "A real ball breaker. We'll have to watch out for her; well, you will. She looked like she wanted to have you for lunch, Christian."

I don't like Ros's inappropriate comment but I know she's right because Ashley Peters is _just_ like Elena.

We're driving back to the office when my cell rings. I put it onto speakerphone.

"Grey."

"Mr Grey, Jake Whelan here. We were very impressed with your presentation; we'd like to offer Grey Cells the contract to supply our new smartphones. We'll mail the contract from our lawyers tomorrow. I look forward to doing business with you, Mr Grey."

"Thank you, Mr Whelan; we can look forward to a profitable relationship – you've made the right decision."

"Good day, Mr Grey."

"Mr Whelan."

Ros punches the air then leans across and kisses me on the cheek. I nearly crash the car.

"Fuck, Ros!"

"Sorry, Christian! But this is big! Fuck! This is _huge!_"

I glance over at her and she's got this enormous smile plastered across her face. I can't help smiling back.

"Yeah, it's pretty good news."

"Pretty good! _Pretty good!_ Hell, Christian, this is one of the biggest deals in US telecoms. It'll put Grey Cells on the map; it'll put _you_ on the map. The business press are going to be all over you like hair on a gorilla!"

The thought makes the smile slide from my face. Of course: publicity. The downside of success. And I have a lot of secrets to hide. I'm going to have to be considerably more careful from now on and take steps to bury my private life even deeper. _If my private life wasn't already on the critical list it'll be six fucking feet under when news of this deal gets out_. Ros is right, and a BDSM lifestyle isn't something any investors or banks will want to see on the front page of the Seattle Times.

_Fuck! I'm going to be doing a lot more running at night._

The thought is depressing.

Two days later the contract has been signed and USC Retail and Grey Cells have issued a joint press release announcing the deal.

The PR and marketing departments at both Grey Cells and GIC have been briefed on how to handle calls about me. Basically, with as little information as I think I can get away with. I know that won't satisfy all the journalists so the next stage is to have all employees who work closely with me sign Non Disclosure Agreements.

The calls start immediately the release hits the news desks. Over and over again my staff report that, 'No, Mr Grey won't be doing interviews; no, Mr Grey does not have any further comment'.

Ros knocks on my door, accompanied by a nervous looking Chelsie, head of PR at Grey Cells.

"Yes?"

"Christian," says Ros, "Chelsie has a problem."

_Oh for fucks sake! She couldn't come and speak to me by herself?_

"I'm sorry, sir," she stutters, "but we're going to need to provide a photograph of you; the press are clamoring for it."

"Tell them to fu… tell them I've got better things to do with my time!"

She blanches and looks anxiously at Ros.

"Christian, if we don't give them something, they're going to use one of your old rowing pictures that some journo has dug up. And if the business world think you're too young now, they'll definitely think so if they see one of those. You're going to have to get some professional head shots done. Today. Chelsie has booked a photographer; she'll be here at 2pm."

"Oh for fucks sake, Ros!"

"Suck it up, Christian," she says bluntly and closes the office door, taking the traumatized Chelsie with her.

I know she's right; the thought makes me pissed.

At 1.30pm I hear a flurry of activity in reception. The fucking photographer has arrived. Even my parents have hardly any pictures of me; I _hate_ having my photo taken.

The photographs will be taken in the meeting room; I've scheduled 15 minutes for the torture. Good thing Elena has trained me to take it.

Precisely at two, I stalk into the meeting room. I barely recognize it: silver reflector screens and a bank of lights have been positioned against one wall; cables trail across the floor.

Chelsie approaches me as if she suspects that I might bite. _Only when I have written permission and, frankly, you're not my type_.

"Mr Grey, this is Tanis Bowden, your photographer."

Ms Bowden is a tall, thin red-head in her early thirties. And for some reason she's fucking gawping at me. _Not a good look, Ms Bowden._

"You're Christian Grey?" she bleats.

_For fucks sake._

"Yes," I reply icily.

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I was expecting someone… well, if you'd take a seat over there, we'll get some head shots, then some standing."

I scowl. "You've got 15 minutes."

Her eyebrows shoot up but she quickly gets to work.

I sit in the appointed chair and try to force my mind to ignore the evidence of my eyes, to find somewhere peaceful where I'm not the object of everyone's attention. I really hate this; it reminds me when I was a teenager, before Elena took me in hand, when my teachers and classmates used to stare at me like I was some rabid beast that could lash out at any second. Which wasn't so far from the truth.

Why do people stare? It's so fucking rude.

Ms Bowden's carping voice stirs me from my thoughts.

"Mr Grey, if you could stand now, please."

Her assistant pulls the chair out of shot and I stand, one hand in my pants pocket, one hanging uselessly by my side. _What a fucking waste of time_.

And I decide I've had enough.

"There ought to be something useable there," I snarl.

She looks surprised but doesn't argue as I march back to my office.

"Do you want to see the photographs, sir?" she calls after me.

"No I fucking don't!"

By six o'clock the building is quiet and I feel able to relax slightly. Ros pops her head in on the way home.

"Chelsie has mailed out your photograph and a brief bio to the journos who requested them, ok, Christian?"

"Fine."

She hesitates the shakes her head and leaves.

But the next morning the shit really hits the fan and I'm about to lose it – big time.

"Tell Chelsie to get the fuck in here!" I roar at Susan.

"Yes, sir!" she says, briskly, glad for once that she's not the one in the firing line – possibly literally.

Chelsie enters looking pale and shaky. _This is _her_ fucking fault!_

"What the fuck do you call this piece of shit?" I yell, throwing the Seattle Times down so it skids across the desk and lands with a thud at her feet.

I notice obliquely that her hands are shaking.

"I'm s-s-sorry, sir, I don't understand!"

I run my hands through my hair in frustration. _How fucking stupid is this woman?_

Suddenly Ros enters and glances at the wan Chelsie.

"I heard voices, well, your voice," she says calmly.

"Have you seen this crap?" I growl.

"Yes, Christian. You may go, Chelsie."

"I haven't fucking finished with her!"

"Chelsie, go," says Ros firmly.

Chelsie sprints for the door.

"What the fuck?"

"Christian, you have to calm down. Bullying Chelsie isn't helping."

_Bullying? Is that what I'm doing? Fuck._

I take several deep breaths but feel too wired to sit.

"This isn't Chelsie's fault, Christian. You know that, right?"

"Well whose fucking fault is it then?" I say, acidly.

"You know what newspapers are like, and you're a story. But it'll be a nine-day wonder and then there'll go on to the next person."

"How can they print shit like this? It's an invasion of my privacy."

"Don't be naïve, Christian, it doesn't suit you. Frankly, what did you expect? A millionaire entrepreneur before your 21st birthday. The newspapers love this sort of shit. By the way, your mom called; she says she wants a copy of the picture."

She grins at me.

"Oh for fucks sake!"

The newspaper is still lying on the floor where I threw it. Ros bends down and picks it up, laying it carefully on my desk.

"Yeah well, at least your mom wants a picture of you," she says bitterly. "Now leave Chelsie alone unless you want her spending the rest of the day bawling in the ladies' restroom. She did her job; that's all."

She stands and leaves the office, closing the door quietly behind her.

I know she's right; I feel like shit anyway. _So what's new?_

I stare again at the newspaper headline underneath one of Ms Bowden's pictures: 'Is this Seattle's most eligible bachelor?'

_Oh for fucks sake!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"Hey, little bro, how's it hanging?"

"Hello, Elliot."

_Will he ever stop talking like a teenager, for fuck's sake?_

"Mom wanted me to call you – make sure you're still alive. Especially as we only get to hear about 'Seattle's most eligible bachelor' in the press these days."

I knew it would be beyond Elliot's meagre self-control to let that rest. Even though the article was weeks ago he keeps on bringing it up. It's really fucking irritating.

"What do you want, Elliot?"

"We're going for a drink tonight."

"Who is?"

"You and me, bro. I'll see you at Zig Zags at 8pm."

"I'm busy. And I hate cocktails."

"Yeah, I get it: too busy for your family. Well, suck it up, Christian, because Mom told me to take you out and I'm way more scared of her than I am of you."

"I have to work, Elliot so I'm not…"

But he cuts me off.

"It's Friday night and I'm not taking 'no' for answer, little bro. I'll see you at eight. If you're not there, I'll come find you, even if you're welded to your laptop."

And then he hangs up on me. So I'm in a foul, fucking mood even thought the day's hardly started.

I've been in the office for a couple of hours, roughing out plans to buy a new manufacturing company I'm interested in. I can leverage the revenue through buying its fixed assets which are in good shape, as opposed to the management who have been bleeding sales for too long. The business is crumbling and their order books are dire; but they've got a good product and a productive workforce, so I'm interested – and I'm sure I can fix it. It'll be another company to add to Grey Enterprises Holdings portfolio which I've recently set up. It's not about the acquisition per se, but knowing that I can make this company profitable – and it will save a small slice of the US's diminishing manufacturing backbone.

Baxter's Engineering started as a family-owned ships' chandlers about 60 years ago and has become a company that supplies parts for the ship-building industry. They tried to float on the stock market three years ago but they got the timing badly wrong and have been struggling ever since. I know it's moving away from my core business and Ros was reluctant to start with, but I persuaded her that this was a real opportunity. I want her with me on this. I trust her judgement and although I never thought I'd be keen on delegating, I know she's fast becoming my right hand man, er, woman.

What I haven't told her – yet – is that I have a long held dream of owning my own cargo ship, or, better still, fleet of ships; ships that carry food around the world. I don't want to have to explain to her why this is important to me. Anyway, it's none of her fucking business; if she's never been hungry, she wouldn't understand – and that part of my life is private.

Most of my earliest memories are about either hunger or pain. The worst memories, the truly painful ones, have been pushed to the back of my mind and erupt occasionally as nightmares. Ok, more than occasionally, but I usually manage not to think about them consciously. The hunger ones are much harder to deal with. I know it's irrational, but I get so fucking furious when people so casually say, 'I'm starving', or 'I'm dying of hunger'. I want to yell at them, 'No, you're fucking not! You don't know what real hunger is! You don't know what it is to starve!'. But I can't, so I don't. But even after all this time it makes me stupidly tense and I just want to rip their heads off.

I really hate being hungry because it brings back the bad memories. And I decide that in the next company I buy I'm going to put in a subsidised cafeteria, so that I can guarantee the workforce is well fed. I'm getting to the stage where I can afford it. I can find a dozen ways to rationalize the cost outlay and some of it can be offset against tax, but deep down I know that's not the real reason.

Elliot used to tease me that I'd end up getting really fat because I always eat everything on my plate. But I'd never let that happen. For one thing, I need control in my life to function as much as possible like a normal human being – that includes control over my body; something Elena helped with. But even without her, I wouldn't have allowed myself to get fat because I would have felt too guilty; because I've known what it's like to starve, I can't abide taking more than my fair share. And it's not like I don't already have enough guilt floating around to sink most normal people.

_Except that you're not normal, Grey_.

Yes, that's true. And I think I'm going to have to do something about that. There's only so much running, kickboxing and sit-ups I can do. Frankly, celibacy doesn't suit me; I've not had to think about it since I was 15. I know that Elena would still be available if I gave her a call but I can't bring myself to do it; that part of my life is finished. But that dom/sub service that she mentioned… maybe I should check it out.

I find I rather like the idea of having a sub as my beck and call girl. I can afford it: in fact I can afford pretty much anything I want now. I've been toying with the idea of buying an apartment – real estate is always a sound investment and it would be more private and give me more control. Twice now I've found fucking reporters camped outside my apartment building. If I had a place with a drive-in garage, I could ensure that wouldn't be an issue.

My mind drifts back to the idea of having my own sub: yes, I'd really like that. Maybe I'll email Elena and see if she's free for dinner tonight… oh, not tonight – I have to get through an evening with Elliot first. I find that I don't mind that much: it'll be good to spend some time with my brother, just so long he's not trying to set me up with someone again.

I fire off an email to Elena suggesting dinner Saturday. There's a new French place just opened that I've been meaning to try out. And then I can ask her about finding a sub. In my mind's eye I picture a brunette with long hair. I don't know why that appeals to me, but it does.

My musings are getting a little too interesting and I realise I'm going to have a serious problem settling down again unless I focus on something else.

A knock on the door gives me the change of subject I need. My PA Susan looks nervous as she enters.

"Good morning, Mr Grey."

"What is it, Susan?" _When will she ever get to the fucking point?!_

"I wondered if I could put up this poster in the kitchen, sir."

She points to a homemade A4 poster she's clutching as if it's the last word of God.

"Yes?"

She hands over the paper, her hands shaking.

"It's from my church. We're having a food drive to raise money for the children of Darfur. In Sudan."

_I read the fucking newspapers: I know where Darfur is._

"I wondered if I could just… just put it up in the kitchen so maybe people here could make a donation… or something."

"Fine, but I don't want you going around bothering people when they're working. Just the poster."

"Oh, thank you, Mr Grey! That's very… very…"

And then she ducks out of the office quickly.

It occurs to me that I might need to work on my people skills.

I hear the ping of an email arriving at my inbox: it's from Elena.

From: Elena Lincoln

Subject: Re: Dinner

Date: March 12 2004

To: Christian Grey

That sounds marvellous. I'll meet you there at 7.45pm.

Elena

Elena Lincoln

MD, Esclava Salons Inc.

Good. Then I can broach the subject of finding a submissive.

A couple of hours later I'm still feeling restless. I decide to go walkabout but as I stroll through the building, recently rebranded as GEH, I can't help noticing that staff keep their heads down or abruptly end conversations as I walk past. It amuses me but maybe it shouldn't. Perhaps it just shows how fucked up I am. The thought darkens my mood still further.

As I wander past IT I notice Barney's feet sticking out from under his desk. I know he's not dead because one of his feet is tapping out a rhythm. Now I think about it, there are times when Barney makes me look almost normal. Of course I keep my shit well hidden, but even so…

"Hey, Mr Grey!" he calls from under the desk.

I can only assume he has recognised me from my shoes. _How fucking sad is that?_

"Good afternoon, Barney."

He crawls out with a happy look on his face.

"I just figured out that if I rewire the router through this new port, I can get an extra terabyte of disk space for every work station in the building."

_Now that is damn interesting_.

"Show me."

So for the next 10 minutes I'm on my hands and knees under Barney's desk whilst he shows me what he's done. Half my brain is listening to his explanation and the other half is figuring out a commercial outlet for his innovation. By the time I crawl out, my mood has lightened considerably.

And then I run into Ros, who is looking flustered – I've never seen her like that before.

"Christian! We've been looking all over for you!"

"Who's we?"

"Half the staff!"

"Why, what's up?"

She frowns. "I've got Ashley Peters in my office – and I can't get rid of the damn woman."

"She doesn't have an appointment: what does she want?"

"You. Probably for breakfast." She pauses. "Can you handle it or do you want me to get rid of her?"

_I'm a dominant, for fuck's sake!_ "Yes, I can handle it, Ros. Send her to my office."

I stand when she enters and walk to the door to meet her. She runs her eyes up and down me like I'm some kind of prize stud. _If only you knew, baby_.

"Ms Peters, this is an unexpected pleasure. I hope there isn't an issue with the USC deal?"

I wave her into a chair and return to the seat behind my desk.

"Not at all, Mr Grey. I simply happened to be in the area and thought I'd drop in… to see the nerve centre of Grey Cells."

"Certainly, I'll have my Head of Innovations and Development show you around."

"I was rather hoping that _you_ would show me around, Mr Grey. I must say I was a little disappointed not to have heard from you. I'm sure I gave you my number."

I could be polite and play dumb – or I can get to the fucking point.

"I'm flattered, Ms Peters, but I make it a policy not to mix business with pleasure."

"How very noble of you, Mr Grey," she says, her voice aiming for seductive. "But I'm sure I could persuade you of the benefits of… networking."

Ok, I've been polite enough and she's not getting the message.

"No, Ms Peters, you couldn't."

I let the words hang in the air and stare at her, my expression impassive.

I watch the color rise in her cheeks. Now she understands.

"I see. Well, I apologise for wasting your time, Mr Grey."

I show her to the door but as soon as Susan disappears to collect her coat, Ros's partner Gwen comes bouncing in.

"Hi Christian!" she calls, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

I can't help smiling at her; she's so playful and kittenish – the complete opposite of Ros. Maybe that's the attraction.

Ashley Peters watches the by-play with interest. I see her put two and two together and come up with the answer of five; in other words, she jumps to the conclusion that I'm gay. Just because one of my co-workers is gay, for fucks sake. Some people are so fucking prosaic. But I also see that this conclusion makes her feel considerably better about my rejection and she leaves in much better spirits.

I don't care one way or another: my whole family think I'm gay, what the fuck do I care if Ms Peters has come to the same conclusion? But I don't want her screwing the USC deal either.

And suddenly I'm really looking forward to seeing Elena tomorrow: she's the one person who really knows who I am; the one person who is as dark and twisted inside as me. Elliot is my brother and I love him, but he only sees one part of me. And I thank Christ every day that that's the full extent of his knowledge.

I watch from a distance as Ros and Gwen embrace, almost smiling as Gwen stealthily runs her hand across Ros's ass. It's not really appropriate in the work environment but their happiness spills over and something about it warms me. Although how it can warm that shrivelled piece of sinew in my chest that passes for a heart, is utterly beyond me.

I head back to my office frowning and spend the rest of the afternoon reading the reports filed by Baxters' company auditors. It makes for depressing reading: how the management can fuck things up so easily, seems beyond explanation. Fucking amateurs. But it also means that I'll be able to buy the company for a lot less than it's really worth. I tell Susan to place a call to set up a meeting with my bank on Monday.

At 6pm she knocks tentatively and peers into my office.

"Er… do you need anything else, Mr Grey? Will it be ok if I go now?"

_Jeez, she says the same fucking words every night. Doesn't she ever get bored of them? I know I do._

"Yes, that's fine, Susan. This is for you."

I wave an envelope at her and she goes white. I think she might faint as she walks towards my desk and the thought makes me frown. I hope she's not going to vomit: the carpet is new.

She opens her mouth a few times and I think she's trying to speak: it's hard to tell, she always looks so gormless.

"I'll try harder, Mr Grey," she whimpers.

_What?_

And then I get it: she thinks I'm firing her ass. _No, not yet, Ms Miller_.

Her knees give way and she grabs my desk for support. _Oh, for fucks sake! What is the matter with all these females today?!_

I help her into a seat and give her a glass of water from my decanter.

"Thank you," she murmurs and I see a tear slip down her pancake. "Please don't fire me, Mr Grey. I really need this job. Ever since Mr Roberts Jr left, I thought… I thought…"

_Yeah, yeah, I know what you thought, but you're really not my type_.

"I'm not firing you, Susan. Just open the damn envelope."

Her hands tremble as she attempts to open the stiff paper. _God, she's irritating_. I take the envelope from her before she gets a paper cut and bleeds on the upholstery.

"It's... it's a check, Mr Grey," she says, puzzled.

"That's right, Susan." God, I want to roll my eyes at her but remember my thoughts on employee relations.

She peers at the writing.

"It's made out to my church's food-drive."

"Yes." _Oh for fucks sake, get a grip and then get out!_

"But it's for twenty thousand dollars, Mr Grey!"

"GEH has had a good month, Susan." _Now go!_

She stares as is she can't comprehend what I'm saying.

"You're donating $20,000 to my church's food drive for starving children in Darfur?"

_Do you want me to tattoo it on your fucking stupid forehead!_

"Yes, that's right, Susan. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

She continues to stare as if I've spoken in pig Latin. So I help her up and walk her to the door. I'd really like to throw her through it but that probably isn't in the Affirmative Manager's Handbook that Ros suggested I read. _Fucking cheek_.

When I meet Elliot later that evening, he's being, well, Elliot. To my intense irritation, he's chatting up the cocktail waitress when I arrive.

"Hey, little bro! This beautiful creature is Cassandra."

"I suppose you're going to tell me she's got a twin sister called Helenus," I mutter.

Elliot grins at me, "I think the Greeks got her."

The cocktail waitress stares at us in bemusement. "I've got a brother called Troy," she says, sounding puzzled.

Elliot spits his beer down his chin; Cassandra looks revolted and walks away, her tray at half mast.

"Thanks for nothing, little brother," says Elliot, dolefully. "You just made my future wife pissed."

I roll my eyes at him. Every woman Elliot meets is either fuckable or marriageable as far as he's concerned. Mostly fuckable.

"You still enjoying being Seattle's most eligible bachelor?" he smirks at me.

"Change the fucking tune, Elliot, or I'm out of here."

"Aw, don't be sore, little bro. By the way, Mia said to tell you that you're a real pain in the ass."

"Charming. Any particular reason?"

"I believe you promised to take her out to lunch?"

I sigh. It's true. In a moment of weakness I said I'd drive her out to Olympia one weekend to a place I found that does cuisine sauvage.

"How's the construction business?" I say, keen to change the subject.

"Well, the housing economy is for shit, but interest in eco-building is still gaining ground. So, not bad at all. Is that really what you want to talk about, Christian, work? Can't you talk about anything else anymore?"

For some reason he looks annoyed. _Well, you pick a fucking subject then!_

"Mom and dad would really like to see more of you. They're really proud of you."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I'd hoped for an easy, peaceful, brain-free drink with my brother. It seems to be turning into an intervention. Believe me, I've seen enough of them. When will my stupid brother get it through his thick skull that they're all better off without me?

"Mia misses you," he continues quietly.

Cassandra returns with my beer. Suddenly I'm not thirsty and I certainly don't want company.

I dig a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and place it on her tray.

"Bye, Elliot."

"Oh, come on, Christian!"

He tries to stop me by grabbing my shoulder and I nearly rip his arm off. Everyone turns to stare and silence ripples out until the busy cocktail bar is utterly quiet.

I meet Elliot's eyes and he can't believe what's just happened. Neither can I.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

I have to get out. The walls of my apartment feel like they're closing in on me. I can feel the weight of the brick pressing down, crushing me. If I stay inside I will fucking lose it.

I can't believe I nearly punched Elliot. For the briefest of moments, I really wanted to beat the shit out of him. _My own brother!_ I haven't felt this out of control since I was 15. Since before Elena. I don't want to feel that again. I _can't._

So I run. I pound the streets, pushing myself harder and harder, but I keep seeing Elliot's face: the shock and hurt in his eyes. I can't outrun that.

I haven't really taken any notice of where I've been running so I'm surprised to find that I've ended up in mid-town, near McCaw Hall. I've been here many times for the opera, often birthday treats for Mia. Thinking about my little sister helps calm me down. Her no bullshit approach cuts through all the crap: I admire that about her, even though it's fucking irritating at times. The run has calmed me, somewhat: I manage to gain some perspective on the incident with Elliot. Fact is, I didn't hit him, even though I wanted to. So I didn't completely lose it.

The thought is of fleeting comfort. I need to get a grip. I hope Elena can help. In fact, I'm counting on her. Again.

Saturday morning and after spending a couple of hours working out in a gym I've found half a dozen blocks away, I have an appointment with a realtor. There's an apartment I'm interested in. I take some pride in the fact that I can afford to buy it for cash. The place I'm in at the moment is beginning to feel claustrophobic. But I have a more pressing motive: the new place, if I like it, has underground parking, which makes it much more private. I can avoid the press who are taking too close an interest in the continuing success of GEH; more importantly, it will give me the privacy I need if I'm going to have my own sub. The idea is _very _attractive.

I'm five minutes early for the appointment so I lean against the wall, my gym bag at my feet, and enjoy a rare moment of peace in the mild Spring air.

I spot the realtor before she's killed the engine of her electric blue Corvette. In her thirties, she's wearing a burgundy power suit and five inch heels. I wonder in passing how she manages to drive safely in those shoes. She glances at her Rolex and frowns. I'm amused by her irritation: she hasn't realised that her appointment arrived before her and is currently lounging in the sun, ten feet away. It must be the Aviator shades.

I decide to put her out of her misery.

"Miss Roberts?"

She turns and stares.

"Yes?"

"Christian Grey."

He mouth hangs open.

"You're Christian Grey?"

I frown. I really don't like repeating myself.

"Yes. The penthouse?"

She gathers her scattered wits, openly staring at me. Maybe it's not the shades; maybe it's the jeans and T-shirt. Whatever.

"Of course, Mr Grey. This way, sir."

She fumbles the key and manages to drop it on the sidewalk. She doesn't see me roll my eyes as I bend down to retrieve it for her.

"Oh, thank you! So clumsy. Please, call me Portia."

_I don't care if your name is Titania! Just show me the fucking apartment!_

The lobby is small, but calming in polished granite and there are two elevators. Although the building is only ten floors, there are 37 apartments: nine storys with corner units, plus the penthouse.

In the elevator Miss Roberts starts fanning herself.

"It's a little hot in here," she murmurs.

I can't say I'd noticed.

The elevator doors open into a small vestibule facing a plain, white door. Miss Roberts seems a little shaky. Too much caffeine or not enough?

Once through the door, she seems to snap out of it and launches into her sales patter.

"You'll see this delightful penthouse has been furbished to a high standard with nearly 4,000 square feet of living space, and two guest bedrooms with private bathrooms. There's an underground garage and state of the art security with CCTV, managed off-site. Let me show you the master bedroom: it has stunning views over the city."

She touches my arm in what's meant to be a flirty gesture. I freeze, then take a step away, out of her reach. A look of confusion crosses her face. She blushes, then continues with her spiel.

"The kitchen has every convenience and…"

"I didn't see a freight elevator?"

She's thrown by my interruption.

"Er, yes, there's a large freight elevator to the rear." She hesitates but her curiosity gets the better of her. "Did you have a particular reason for asking?"

"Yes."

She waits for me to reply but it's really none of her business and I have another question.

"How good is the sound proofing?"

She blinks, surprised by my question, no doubt. "Er, well, let me see." She hastily scans through her notes. _She should fucking know this!_ "I'm sure you won't find a problem with traffic noise up here…"

"I have a piano," I explain, irritated with her ineptitude. _Well, I don't have a piano yet, but I plan to._

"Oh!"

She looks surprised again. Her eyes flick back to me, reassessing rapidly. "Well, we can check for sound leakage but my notes say that resonant absorbers have been incorporated into the build."

"Good enough. I assume the apartment is available immediately?"

"Well, yes, subject to validation of your mortgage agreement."

"No mortgage."

"Excuse me."

"I don't have a mortgage. No loan agreement."

She looks stunned then annoyed. "Mr Grey, this apartment is on the market for $1.7 million."

"I'll pay you $1.55. Cash."

She gasps. "Cash? Well, I…"

"Speak to the owner, Miss Roberts. I want an answer on Monday morning: or I'll withdraw my offer. You have my cell number."

She looks faint. _Oh, for fucks sake! This is your job!_

"Of… of course!"

We return to the lobby in silence.

As I sling my gym bag over one shoulder and saunter down the sidewalk pleased with my latest acquisition, Miss Roberts is still standing in the street.

When I get back home, my apartment looks small and shabby by comparison. I really can't wait to get out of here.

I fire up my laptop and am surprised to find an email from Elena.

From: Elena Lincoln

Subject: Re: Dinner

Date: March 13 2004

To: Christian Grey

Change of plan. I think I've found what you're looking for – as previously discussed. I'll pick you up 7.30pm.

Elena

Elena Lincoln

MD, Esclava Salons Inc.

I'm irritated that she's changing our dinner plans but I can't be bothered to argue. Not today.

I work for several hours, order a chicken salad from a nearby deli for lunch, then work on through into the evening. When I finally stand and stretch, it's already 7pm.

I shower quickly and dress in my usual off-duty uniform of black jeans, white shirt and black jacket.

My cell rings exactly at 7.30pm.

"I'm outside, Christian."

I run down the stairs and find Elena double parked.

She's dressed in her usual severe style: black cocktail dress, diamond earrings.

"Your hair is damp."

"Showers tend to do that, Elena."

"Hmm."

"So where are we going?" I'm irritated that I have to ask.

"A new club."

"Christ, Elena! You know I can't go somewhere like that anymore!"

"Don't snap at me, Christian. CK's is an exclusive club for people who can afford it. Invitation only. You need a sub: this is where we'll find one. I've spoken to Christine, and she's arranged for you to interview two possibilities."

"Christine?"

"The owner. Very discreet."

Our destination is a large, colonial style house a few minutes from the Greenlake Bar and Grill, the kind of genteel place a minor politician would aspire to. There are a number of expensive cars parked outside: mostly European marques, BMWs and Mercedes.

A doorman who looks like he's doubling as security opens the door and studies Elena's letter of introduction before granting us entry.

"Mrs Lincoln and Mr Grey, ma'am."

A tall woman with a glossy, black bob strolls out to meet us. Her movement is that of a catwalk model: feline and predatory. I assume this is Christine.

"Welcome to CK's," she purrs, examining us closely. "How nice to see you again, Mrs Lincoln. I believe you'll both be selecting submissives this evening?"

"If we can find suitable matches," says Elena coolly.

"Of course, Mrs Lincoln. Your preferences were noted on acceptance of your application."

She turns to address me directly. "Mrs Lincoln has advised that you are considering joining our… let's call it our subscription service. She has outlined what you're looking for, but I prefer to conduct one-to-one interviews myself."

I shrug. "Elena knows my tastes."

"Indeed!"

She snaps her fingers and a waiter brings each of us a glass of chilled champagne.

"Your good health, Mrs Lincoln, Mr Grey."

We raise our glasses to her toast then she leads us inside.

CK's is the last word in opulence. Soft leather couches line the small, intimate booths, and Chopin's Nocturne Opus in E flat major is playing softly in the background. Men and women sit in pairs or small groups, chatting and eating dinner. A large chandelier hangs from a ceiling rose in the centre of the room, and each table is lit by a Tiffany's lamp. It's more like a members' only dining club than a BDSM recruitment centre. But I like it: it's soothing.

Christine catches my eye.

"How much has Mrs Lincoln told you about our service, Mr Grey?"

"Not much."

"Well, let me explain: I vet applications from members for both Dominants and Submissives. I interview all members personally and then match people for their preferences. It's an introductory service, if you will, although I must say that our chef has two Michelin stars and we stock an excellent selection of wines in our cellar."

She signals to a man of about my age.

"Mrs Lincoln, Marcus will show you to one of our meeting rooms so you can interview your shortlisted submissives."

Elena smiles and takes Marcus' willing arm, leaving me with Christine.

"How long have you known Mrs Lincoln?"

"A while."

She pauses. "I see. Well, Mr Grey, if you'll follow me…"

She leads me into a large, attractive office. The furniture is rather heavy and Victorian for my tastes but it fits in with the general décor and everything is of the best quality. She sits behind the vast, ebony desk and waves me to a chair.

"Mrs Lincoln has given me an outline of what you're looking for." She checks her notes. "Between 25 and 35, slim, petite, brunette. Long hair preferred." She looks up. "Anything else?"

"Nobody with dependents."

"Hmm. Well, one candidate I was going to suggest, Sonya, has said that she's the owner of a Border terrier called Vixen. Interesting name. Does that count?" She raises her eyebrows.

"Only if the dog wants to watch."

She laughs out loud at my response. "Indeed! Well, if you could just run your eyes over this list, Mr Grey. Cross out anything that is a hard limit for you."

The form is very comprehensive and I'm pleased that Christine is so thorough. I delete a total of nine acts. She glances through my amendments.

"No acts involving breath control? No threesomes? Those are usually quite popular."

I shake my head. _Too hard to control safely._

"Anything else? Anything not mentioned on the list?"

"Just the dependents, as I mentioned."

"Noted. Well, I do have two possible candidates that I'd like you to meet, based on the profile Mrs Lincoln gave me. She does seem to know you rather well." She pauses again. "May I speak frankly, Mr Grey?"

I'm surprised by her question.

"I thought we were speaking frankly, Christine."

She smiles. "Indeed. I don't wish to be… personal… but I do have some concerns."

"I'm intrigued."

"Forgive me, Mr Grey, but I take it you were… trained by Mrs Lincoln?"

I nod, suddenly uncomfortable: _where is she going with this?_

"I thought so. Mr Grey, I have been in this business for… well, more years that I am prepared to admit to, and I have met a number of Dominants like Mrs Lincoln. My own training, however, was more… sensitive."

_I really have no idea what she's fucking talking about. More sensitive with a whip? More sensitive with a cane?_

"Yes, I see how that may sound rather contradictory but my belief is that a dom is responsible for their sub's emotional and spiritual well-being, as well as their physical health. It's not about control: it's about trust. It's not pain: it's about sensation. A submissive must trust that his or her dominant has their best interests at heart. It's not just about personal gratification and sexual dominance. Your duty as a dom is to keep your submissive safe, healthy and, dare I say it, happy. Your responsibility, your _duty_ is to _protect_ your sub, not to break her spirit."

Her words are revelatory. "I want to protect her. I mean… I want to protect my submissive."

It's true: I realise that I want to protect. That's important to me. And I can't help questioning how much Elena did that. She certainly didn't protect me in Boston when she let that stranger touch me. I shiver at the memory and Christine fixes me with a penetrating gaze.

"Well, it seems we're on the same page after all, Mr Grey. This surprises me. And I'm not a woman that it's easy to surprise."

I sit back, forcing myself to control my emotions, taking a sip of champagne to mask my feelings.

"If we manage to match you up tonight, Mr Grey, the annual membership will be $25,000: a finder's fee, you might say."

"Of course."

"Good! Well, then, please follow me and I'll introduce you to the first candidate. He name is Kirsten and she's 32. She's an experienced submissive. Her last dominant moved to Florida, hence her present situation. Here's her application form. Oh, and she's not in role at present. I prefer first meetings to be… neutral."

I scan my eyes through the details. "She's a social worker?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all." _In fact I rather like the idea that she's the nurturing type_.

Christine opens a door into another room. This one is smaller, but still very much an office. A woman with soft, hazel eyes smiles pleasantly at me. My eyes are drawn to her long, wavy brown hair. She stifles a soft gasp when she sees me. I frown. _What's her problem?_

"Kirsten, this is Mr Grey."

"Hello, sir."

"Well, I'll leave you two to talk. Mr Grey, come back to my office when you're finished."

Christine leaves and I take a seat and turn to face Kirsten.

"Good to meet you, Kirsten. I'd like to ask you about your former dominant. How long were you with him?"

"Seven years. He wanted me to go to Florida with him, but my family and friends are here. And I didn't think I could stand the humidity down there."

"You're from Seattle?"

"New York originally. But I've lived here since I was 22."

"And you have no dependents?" I already know the form says not, but I have to check.

"No, sir."

"Good. This is my list of hard limits: is there anything you want to add to it?"

I'm pleased to see she reads it through carefully.

"No, that's fine, sir."

"And you'd be available every weekend, if required?"

"Yes, sir."

"How soon would you be available?"

"Immediately, sir. I've missed… playing."

_Her words really fucking turn me on._ Several scenes spring to mind and I wonder if I could convert one of the guest rooms in the apartment into a playroom. Hmm. Probably best to improvise: my family… well, Mia mostly, is so fucking nosy, that she'll want to look in every room. If I have one kept locked, she's bound to ask questions.

I realise Kirsten is still looking at me. I clear my throat.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"I was wondering… pardon me for speaking frankly, but you look very… young. Have you done this before? Sir?"

"Yes, Kirsten, I have."

She waits for me to continue but that's enough fucking information. I stare back at her and she immediately drops her eyes. Her lips part and her breathing hitches slightly: I can tell she's excited. _Fuck! That's arousing!_

I stand up before things go any further.

"Thank you, Kirsten. I'll let you know."

"Thank you, sir," she whispers.

I walk out and take a deep, steadying breath, then make my way back to Christine's office.

I knock and walk in.

"Ah, Mr Grey. How did you find Kirsten? Would you like to meet Sonya now?"

"No, Kirsten is… fine. I'd like to try a one month contract."

"One month? I normally recommend three: it gives you a better chance of deciding if you're compatible in the longer term."

"Fine: three months."

"Excellent! And when would you like her to start?"

"I hope to be moving into a new apartment in a couple of weeks. I'll contact you."

I take my credit card out of my wallet and hand it over.

She runs it through a machine and passes it back, a slight smile on her face. Then she stands and we shake hands.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Grey. I'll escort you back to the main room. Mrs Lincoln is waiting for you."

"Thank you. I'll find my own way."

"As you wish. Until next time, Mr Grey."

I find Elena sitting in one of the booths, studying a menu.

"I've ordered for us, Christian. Oh, don't look at me like that! I know what you like! Well, did you find a suitable sub?"

"Yes. Did you?"

"Possibly. We're still negotiating the hard limits. I saw two: neither were prepared to go as far as you did, Christian."

Her words make me uncomfortable and I'm reminded of Christine's comments about her own training, and about the role of a dominant.

"You were a marvellous submissive, Christian. Are you sure I can't tempt you back?"

"No, you fucking can't, Elena."

She laughs lightly. "Just checking, Christian. Oh well, I could try them out, I suppose. I can be very persuasive, can't I?"

She laughs again. "More champagne?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Ever since I met Kirsten I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. I've been planning out various scenes but have dismissed most of them for being too intense. I haven't had to worry about this before because using the clubs meant it was one woman, one time. But if I want a long term sub, this needs more thought.

After talking to Christine I've come to realize that Elena's style of domination was intense: yeah, that's the word. Christine basically warned me off being a Dom in Elena's style. So I'm more wary than usual – after all, I don't know any other way. I'll just have to take it slow with Kirsten and make sure I do enough to make her want to come back. Hell, I want her so badly I could fuck her into next week but I've learned to control my more extreme urges. I can never get rid of them: I know that. In fact, I don't want to. Elena has shown me that they're part of who I am. Yeah, I'm fucked up, but it's finding a way to deal with it. Elena's way. And now it's going to my way. Soon it will be Kirsten's way.

But there's something I have to do first – something that isn't a talent I readily possess. I have to find a way to apologize to my brother. Last time I saw Elliot, I came close to hitting him. I don't mean horsing around, I mean beating the shit out of him and wiping the blood off of my hands. The loss of control scared the shit out of me. It took me back to being 15 years old and totally mind-fucked.

I think about phoning him up to go for a drink but somehow that seems cowardly. I'll have to go and see him face-to-face, so that I know we're ok. My brother has always been on my side and always forgiven me. There's been a lot to fucking forgive. And now, more than ever.

I work late. We're in talks with Baxter's but the MD is being difficult. He's run the company into the fucking ground but he still doesn't want to sell it – warbling on about family heritage. It took me all of two minutes to point out that in another six months he'll have jack-shit to pass on to his offspring. Ros was impressed: two minutes before telling it like it is has doubled the record for my personal best. My people skills are definitely improving.

I wonder if Elliot has already eaten. If not, maybe we can have dinner. I know what I'll be eating: humble fucking pie.

I decide against phoning him first. I _need_ to see him.

When I pull up outside I can see lights on his apartment. I'm relieved because I want to get this done now.

I press the buzzer for the intercom and I'm let in immediately: Elliot didn't even check to see who it is. Fuck, he must be expecting a date. I consider coming back another time but, well, I'm here now. May as well get it over with.

The door to his apartment is wide open. Elliot has no fucking sense of security. I step in, hearing music flooding out.

"Didja forget your keys again, babe? Oh! Who are you?"

The redhead standing in front of me looks nervously at me then blushes.

_It never fucking changes. Stop fucking staring at me!_

"I'm Elliot's brother. I take it he's not here?"

"Er, no. But he'll back any minute. He went to get pizza. Are you Christian? He's talked about you. I'm Jessica."

_He hasn't mentioned you at all. Not that I've given him the chance._

"Would you like a glass of wine, Christian?" she says, picking up an uncorked bottle.

"No, thank you. I'll come back another time. I apologize for interrupting your evening."

I turn to go but almost bump into Elliot who is bounding up the stairs.

"Hey, little bro," he says warily. "What are you doing here?"

I take a deep breath, fully aware that Jessica will hear every word.

"I just wanted to… I'm sorry about what happened last time I saw you. Things have been… difficult lately. I know that's not an excuse…"

My words trail off pathetically but my brother isn't someone who holds a grudge. He grins at me and slaps me on the shoulder.

"No worries. Come on in and have some pizza with us. You've met Jessica? Jess, come say 'hi' to my little brother."

"We're already met," says Jessica smiling at me. "I tried to persuade him to have a glass of wine."

"I don't want to interrupt your evening," I say, turning to go.

"Have you eaten yet, because I've got enough pizza for three? Don't go, Christian. Stay and chill out. Jess is a musician, too."

Jessica looks at me doubtfully, her eyes raking up and down my bespoke suit. "You're a musician?"

Elliot laughs and closes the door to the apartment, effectively sealing me in.

"What do you play?"

"Christian plays the piano and our little sister plays the cello. Jessica is a second violin in the Seattle Symphony Orchestra," Elliot says proudly.

He tosses me one of the pizza boxes and goes through to the kitchen with the others. I'm left standing in the middle of the living room feeling like an ass.

"Come and sit down," says Jessica kindly, pointing towards the dining room table.

It's set for two, with candles. I decide to leave: I've spent enough of my life feeling like a third fucking wheel.

"Don't even think about leaving," Elliot yells from the kitchen.

I have to admit: my brother knows me well. Jessica smiles at me and quickly puts out another placemat and serviette.

I give up, tossing the pizza box on the table, shrugging out of my jacket and loosening my tie.

"What sort of music do you like, Christian?"

"All sorts: I have eclectic tastes."

"I meant to play. Do you have a favorite piece?"

"Anything that sounds like a dirge," Elliot yells from the kitchen.

Jessica rolls her eyes and grins at me. I can't help smiling back but I wish I hadn't because she gasps, looks confused and drops her eyes to the table.

"He's always playing Chopin," shouts Elliot, oblivious to the by-play in his dining room. "And… what's that Russian one you were working on… the one with all the notes?"

I shake my head. Elliot's taste runs more to world music.

"You know… Ravel – the Scarbo," he yells.

Jessica raises her eyebrows. "You can play Ravel's 'Scarbo'? Even professional pianists look pale when that one is mentioned."

"Yeah, well, my little brother is pretty damn good, though I say it myself," says Elliot affably, strolling into the dining room with a bowl of salad balanced on top of the other pizza boxes. "You might hear him play at mom and dad's on Sunday."

I frown at him. "What's going on at mom and dad's?"

Elliot shakes his head. "Do you _ever_ pick up your messages? Mia says she's called your apartment at least six times."

_Fuck! I haven't even looked at the home answer machine._

"You are coming, aren't you, Christian? Mia's counting on you being there."

_Enough with the emotional fucking blackmail!_

I shrug. "What time?"

Elliot grins at me. "One for 1.30pm – the usual. And we're taking the boat out afterwards so bring your deck shoes."

"I'll come for lunch, Elliot, but I haven't got time to go sailing. I have to work."

He scowls at me. "Take the fucking day off and go spend some time with Mia."

The atmosphere in the room is suddenly arctic as we glare at each other.

Jessica shifts in her chair.

"I'd really like to hear you play the piano, Christian," she says softly, trying to lighten the mood.

_I seriously fucking doubt you'll ever hear me play! I don't perform for strangers._ But I appreciate her efforts all the same. I remind myself that I'm here to eat humble pie. I had no idea Elliot would be serving up a fucking supersize portion.

Elliot never stays mad for long and soon we're managing to hold something like a normal conversation. Jessica is funny and witty and she makes me smile with a long story about a visiting conductor whose ego is in disproportionate size to his talent. The wine is making her indiscreet but I can see why Elliot likes her.

At 11pm I decide to head back and put in a couple of hours' work before I try and sleep.

Elliot punches me on the arm as I put on my jacket ready to leave. It's his way of telling me that we're ok. I'm relieved. Suddenly Jessica swoops in to hug me. It's a playful, kittenish hug, but her hands reach towards my chest and I stumble backwards, my heart sprinting with sudden, irrational fear.

Her smile falters and she looks at Elliot to see what she did wrong.

"He doesn't like to be touched," says Elliot softly.

An expression of horror and pity is evident on Jessica's face. I mumble my goodbyes and get the fuck out, leaving Elliot to decide how much – or little – to explain to her.

I stride back towards my car, filled with boiling rage. Fuck! I can't even manage one ordinary, fucking evening without finding a way to spoil it, to fuck it up for everyone else. _This _is why my family is better off without me. _Why don't they understand? Why won't they leave me alone?_

By the time I get home, I'm incapable of working: my head is so fucked. Instead I pull on my sweats and running shoes and head out into the dark. It's raining: I enjoy the cool water on my face, soaking into my hair and clothes. Maybe it will cool the furious heat inside me.

It's nearly 1am by the time I return home. I'm surprised to see a new text message on my phone. I'm even more surprised to see it's from Kirsten. I wasn't expecting to hear from her until I moved into my new apartment next month.

* Sir, I am free tonight if you want to play. Next month is a long way away. *

Yes. This is what I need.

I shower quickly and pull on some old jeans and a T-shirt. There's no CEO now – he's left the building; probably the fucking planet.

I stow a pair of handcuffs in my back pocket along with a new packet of condoms, and head out.

Kirsten's apartment is in Fremont, a hip part of town. The bars are still packed and I'm not the only person I see when I park up in her street.

She's waiting for me at the door to her apartment. I'm pleased to see she's not wearing any make-up and her long, curling hair is hanging loose around her shoulders.

"Good evening, sir. It's good to see you."

"Good evening, Kirsten."

"May I offer you a glass of wine, sir? Red or white?"

"Thank you. I'll have white, please."

Her apartment is full of colorful wall hangings and folk art. She's obviously going for a bohemian look: not my taste at all. I find it rather distracting.

She hands me a glass of wine and immediately drops her eyes to the floor.

"You may have a glass, too, Kirsten," I say kindly.

"Thank you, sir," she says simply. "Would sir like to see the bedroom?"

"Yes, Kirsten, I would."

I realize immediately that she's taken me to her guest room. There's not much in it other than a large bed, with black sheets and pillow cases and a charcoal grey duvet. _Much better_.

I take a few sips of wine as I look around me. The wine isn't bad: a bit sweet for my taste. I prefer a dry white wine like a Sauvignon Blanc. She'll know my tastes soon enough.

I turn and stare at her. Her gaze is fixed to the floor.

"Take off your robe and give it to me."

She complies immediately and I drink her in. I can see faint tan marks on her pale gold skin. Her breasts are small but beautifully formed.

"Do you have a hair tie?"

"Yes, sir. There's one in the pocket of my robe."

She looks confused as I pull out an elasticized tie then hang her robe on the hook by the door.

"Turn around."

Quickly I braid her hair. I don't want it to get in the way. It's a lovely texture: soft and silky, waving to the middle of her back.

I tug the braid and she takes a step backwards. I can feel her warm skin through my T-shirt. It really fucking turns me on. I slide my hands slowly around her waist and the down towards her hips, letting my fingers skim the edge of her panties. I push my fingers down further: just smooth, soft skin and I'm pleased that she's following the rules already, even though we haven't officially started our contract.

**Deleted scene: I know, I know, but I don't want to get kicked off this site (again). The full scene is on my blog.**

A long sigh escapes her. I lean by her side and rub her wrists gently.

"Thank you, sir," she whispers.

"My pleasure."

I pull off the condom and knot it securely. I'm pleased with how my first encounter with Kirsten has gone. I'll need to reward her. I don't know much about what she likes, but all women like chocolate, right? I intend to buy her something expensive: Swiss or Belgium. And some decent fucking wine.

She rolls over and watches as I pull on my jeans and T-shirt feeling calmer than I've felt in weeks.

She blinks up at me, as I lean over and pull off the hair-tie, combing my fingers through her hair.

"Are you leaving, sir? You're welcome to stay the night."

"Thank you, Kirsten, but I need to get back and work."

"Work? But it's 4am, sir! I'll worry if you don't get some sleep, sir."

I like the fact that she says she'll worry about me. I don't believe her, but it was …acceptable that she said it.

"I'll be in touch, Kirsten."

"I hope it'll be soon, sir," she says.

I let myself out of her apartment and close the door quietly.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The light is hazy, soft but bright. I feel weightless up here, as if I've left the fucked up part of myself 2000 feet below.

The air rushes over the wings and with a slight correction I bring the nose up so the horizon falls away again. Control, the illusion of power, as the glider rides the thermals, looking down to a place where people are the size of ants and cars like cockroaches trail up the I-5.

"You can start your descent now, Mr Grey."

The voice breaks into my consciousness, reminding me that I'm not alone up here.

I contact the tower to inform them I'll be landing on runway five.

Gently, I nudge the joystick to the left and begin a slow spiral back to the ground. The glider bounces lightly across the grass: it's a textbook landing.

The wing dips and we come to a complete halt. I unlatch the canopy and jump out, disappointed to be back on earth already. My companion takes his time, moving stiffly.

The old bastard is making me wait as he pretends to check his notes. Finally he looks up and cracks a grin across his leathery face.

"Well, Mr Grey. Under the authority of Parts 61 and 141 of Title 14 of the Code of Federal Regulations, I'm pleased to say that you know have your license to pilot a glider. I'll contact the FAA about the certification. Congratulations."

We shake hands and for a moment I feel… good. I think that's the appropriate word. It seems to fit.

"What's next for you?"

"Rotorcraft," I reply without having to think.

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sure you're up to the challenge although Christ alone knows why you'd want to get into one of those noisy machines. They just ought not to work: all those tons of metal dangling from one lynch pin that keeps the rotor-blades on."

He shakes his head and I can't help grinning at him: Jeff Andrews is a purist.

He ambles back to the office while I head for the parking lot and my mood darkens. Mom is putting on one of her Sunday lunches where we do all that traditional shit like we're a normal family. Well, they probably are a normal family until I turn up. I know Elliot is taking his girlfriend Jessica and I'm not looking forward to seeing her again. She was pretty nice, much better than Elliot's usual choice of all boobs and no brains, but last time I saw her I freaked her out when she tried to hug me. Yeah, I'm _really _looking forward to this cozy family lunch. But I've been promising to spend some time with Mia so I can't say no. Can I?

As I drive out to Bellevue the familiar anxiety begins: what will I do today to fuck it up for everyone else? Just watching them try to ignore the elephant in the room that is me and all my fucked up-ness is painful to watch. They tiptoe around me, hoping that whatever they say next isn't going to be the thing that makes me lose it.

I really hope I can spend some quality time fucking Kirsten soon because without that, my tentative hold on reality begins to fly away. Elena knew how to calm me down and I really need that sense of order in my life. She's offered again to 'help' but I don't want to be under her control: just my own, as if that's even fucking possible.

I pull up in the driveway and take a moment to prepare for my family, trying to pull together the pieces, so they won't see the edges fraying.

I look up and mom is waiting at the door like I knew she would be, but it's Mia who comes barreling out.

"Christian! You've got a new car! Oh, it's so cool, you _have_ to take me for a ride in it with the top down. Please, please, please! Say you will! You promised to take me to Olympia, don't forget. Can we do that next weekend, can we?"

For a moment I'm taken aback. I see people at the office, of course, but generally I spend a lot of time alone. This cascade of words and affection is momentarily overwhelming.

I get out of the car and Mia throws herself at me. Even though I'm mentally prepared I still have to stop myself from flinching. She wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. I tentatively hug her back and am grateful when mom peels her off.

"Let him get into the house, Mia," she says with a smile. "Hello, darling," and she kisses me on the cheek.

I try to smile back and take a deep breath before I head into the house.

"Elliot's brought his new girlfriend," says Mia. "She's really nice, not like… well, you know. She plays the violin: did Elliot tell you? She says you're going to play piano for her later. Are you really, Christian, because you never play for anyone, so it would be way cool if you played today – I haven't heard you play for _ages_. Promise you'll play."

"I don't think so, Mia. Jessica probably misunderstood."

Mia frowns. "No, I don't think so: she said she met you the other night at Elliot's."

I feel my face cracking under the strain of not being seriously fucking pissed off. Mom notices my expression and tries to divert the torrent of Mia's words.

"Can you ask Rosemary how long until lunch, please, Mia?"

"Oh, ok! But don't talk about anything important until I get back: I hate being the last to know everything. Promise! Promise!"

She runs off and I feel like doing the same.

Mom gazes at me sympathetically and starts to stroke a hand through my hair. I don't mean to, but I can't help ducking away from her. She tries not to look upset but I can tell she is. _Fuck!_ I've hurt her already and I've been in the house less than a minute.

Dad comes out to shake hands and frowns when he sees mom's face. Great, now he's pissed, too. A nice, easy Sunday lunch. _For fuck's sake_.

"Hey, little bro. Get your ass in here!"

I hear Elliot's vulgar shout from the main room. Jessica is sitting next to him looking almost as nervous as I feel. I have some sympathy with her: my family can be overwhelming.

"Hear you've bought yourself a new apartment, bro," says Elliot. "Working on being Master of the Universe, hey? How's that goin' for ya?"

"Fuck off, Elliot," I say mildly.

Jessica looks shocked but Elliot just laughs.

"Christian, really! Please don't use language like that: we have guests. And I don't like Mia hearing you talk like that either."

"Sorry, mom. I can't help it around Elliot."

I can see she's trying not to laugh and I'm glad I've said something that doesn't make her look like she wants to cry.

"Hello, Jessica. It's nice to see you again."

Elliot rolls his eyes at me. "Her name's Jess, Christian."

"Jess: nice to see you."

"Hello, Christian," she says nervously. "I'm really looking forward to hearing you play. Everyone says you're marvellous."

I scowl at Elliot.

"I'm sorry, Jessica, Jess: but I don't think so."

"Don't be such a tight-ass," says Elliot.

"Leave him alone, Elliot," Mom says in a don't-mess-with-me tone.

Elliot grins and runs a hand down Jessica's thigh which makes her blush. I don't expect she'll have time to hear me play anyway: I suspect Elliot is planning on having her for dessert in the boathouse.

"Tell us about the new apartment, darling," says mom.

I shrug. "It's an apartment. It has… views."

She waits, expecting more, then sighs. "That's lovely, dear, but does it have any rooms to go with these views?"

Elliot sniggers.

"It has 4,000 square feet of living space, two en-suite guest bedrooms, an underground garage and master bedroom." _Shit! I must sound like a fucking realtor brochure_.

Elliot's jaw drops. "Four thousand feet? Shit, bro! That's _big!_"

_I should have stuck with 'it has views'._

Jessica looks bewildered.

"My little bro is a financial genius," says Elliot proudly. "Crazy as shit, but a goddam genius."

"Elliot!" says mom with that warning voice again.

I really want to get the fuck out of there and am standing up to go when Mia comes bouncing back in.

"Elliot, you're being an ass!" she yells. "Look, he's getting ready to run away already."

"Language, Mia," says mom, rubbing her forehead tiredly.

_If she really wants to improve the language of this family she may as well give the fuck up now._

"I'm not running," I lie. "I'm just going to see what's keeping dad."

"No need," says my dad, striding into the room.

He claps me on the shoulder again.

I can see Jessica's eyes scrolling between us. She's probably wishing she could get the fuck out, too.

"Christian was just telling us about his new apartment," says mom desperately.

_Oh, fuck, no. Not that again_.

"Oh, tell us! Tell us!" sings Mia. "When are you moving in? Can I come and stay? Did you get a piano yet? Can I have a room to decorate? Mom, when can we go see it?"

"I haven't moved in yet. I only agreed it with the realtor last week. It'll be at least two weeks, maybe three."

"Well done, son," says dad proudly. "It's always good to put your money into something solid like property. Now, about the mortgage: my colleague Fred Salmond knows a broker who…"

"That's ok, dad, it's all figured out."

"Figured how? You've never had a mortgage – you don't know which type…"

"I paid cash," I mutter, wishing the conversation would go somewhere else – preferably Mars.

"Excuse me?"

I look up at his surprised face.

"I paid cash, dad. I didn't want a mortgage."

_I wanted something that was mine: something nobody could take away from me, ever._

"But… but… how? How much did you pay for it?"

"Cary!" says mom, quietly. "This is hardly the time or place."

"No, no, of course not," he says. "We can talk about it later in my study after lunch, right, Christian?"

I neither agree or disagree but that conversation won't be happening.

"Well," says mom with increasing desperation, "when did Rosemary say lunch will be ready, Mia?"

"Oh, I knew there was something I was supposed to do," said Mia. "Sorry, mom."

Luckily at that moment Mrs Smithson appears to tell us we can take our places in the dining room.

Mia insists that I sit by Jessica on the grounds that we'll have 'lots to talk about' as we're 'both musical'. I seriously fucking doubt that and Jessica is looking like she'd rather eat raw catfish than sit next to a psycho like me. Can't say I blame her.

But with food in front of us, the conversation morphs into something like normal. We've seen a lot of the same visiting artistes and I realise that I've even seen one of her performances.

"Stop trying to hit on my girl," says Elliot almost seriously, sliding his hand along the top of Jessica's chair.

I know he's goading me because for all he knows I live the life of a Trappist monk, but Jessica blushes until her face is the same color as her hair – or nearly the color of mine.

"Mom, Elliot's being an ass again," says Mia.

Dad throws her a look and mom sighs with frustration.

"You want to take the boat out this afternoon, Mia?" says Elliot.

"Sure thing! Will you come, too, Christian, will you, will you?"

"No, I don't think so. I have to get back and work."

"But it's Sunday," she whines. "Please! Just for half an hour?"

I shake my head. "Not today."

"You always say, 'not today' or 'some other time'. It's not fair!"

"I really think you could make some time for your family, Christian," says dad.

_Here comes the fucking guilt trip_.

"Your brother has brought this delightful young lady to meet us and your sister has been looking forward to seeing you after you _promised _to spend more time with her. I believe you were going to take her to Olympia, too?"

Mia grins in triumph and I can feel my temper beginning to build.

Mom smiles at me sympathetically and manages to change the subject away from the interesting topic of making me feel like shit.

After lunch, I walk down to the boathouse with Elliot and Jessica, Mia bouncing along in front like an over-excited spaniel, all long, dark hair and hopeful brown eyes.

I help Elliot unfurl the sails of the little boat whilst Jessica watches apprehensively.

"I've never been on a sailboat before," she says nervously.

"Don't worry, babe," says Elliot casually. "You'll love it when you're out there."

"I'm not good on water," she admits softly.

I see Mia roll her eyes and Elliot look slightly annoyed. I can tell that Jessica's days are numbered – probably in hours, from the look on Elliot's face.

Tentatively she steps into the boat, her face pale. I clear the mooring lines and jump in, getting ready to start the small outboard that will take us onto the Sound.

Jessica looks more than nervous now – she looks sick.

My cell rings, distracting me from my thoughts.

"What is it, Ros?"

"You haven't heard? About Baxters?"

"What about them?"

"They're trying to raise equity… from Daniel Roberts."

"What the fuck? How did that little fucker manage to raise capital?"

"I don't know. I'm tracking down the money trail now."

"Ok, good. I'll come and meet you and…"

"Christian, take the fucking day off. I know you're with your family and there's nothing you can do right now. I'm on the case and you won't be able to talk to the bank until tomorrow. I just thought you ought to know. Anyway, I can't meet you: I have plans later."

I sigh and run a hand through my hair.

"Fine, but I'm going home now so email me everything you have before you finish for the day."

"Don't blame me if you have a heart attack before you're forty, Grey."

I ignore her jibe. I can hear Gwen's voice clearly in the background. Someone else who doesn't think you should work on a Sunday.

"Whatever, Ros. Have fun with Gwen."

She ends the call.

I look up: Elliot is pulling a face and Mia is pouting.

"I've got to go," I mumble.

"Christian, you promised!" whines Mia.

"Let it go, sis," Elliot says quietly. "Christian has to work."

His voice is cool, but disappointed.

_Nothing new there._

I climb out of the boat and am surprised when Jessica follows me.

"Elliot, do you mind if I go back to the house? I'm really not good with boats – I feel seasick already."

He frowns and looks really pissed off.

"Christian, will you walk Jessica back to the house for me?"

"Sure."

_I really don't want to but I can't say no._

Jessica is almost green on the short walk back and her face is covered in a clammy sweat.

"Do you need the bathroom?" I ask, hoping she's not going to vomit on mom's lawn.

"Yes, please," she answers weakly, holding one hand over her mouth.

I point her in the direction of the downstairs bathroom and then head off to find mom and dad.

Dad, of course, is in his study. He works on a Sunday.

"Christian? I thought you were sailing with Elliot and Mia. And Jessica."

"I had a work call: I've got to go."

"On a Sunday? Is it really that urgent?"

"I need to check some facts quickly."

"Well, you can use my computer, if it's just a few quick facts," he offers.

_Fuck! I should have lied_.

"Your mother is really hoping that you'll stay for a bit longer: she misses you."

_The guy is an expert at emotional fucking blackmail. No wonder he makes such a good lawyer._

"Ok," I sigh.

The truth is Ros has it under control so there's not much for me to do until Monday: then they'll see what a seriously pissed 'financial genius' can do. I'd really like to know where that asshole Daniels has got the money from.

But the usual searches bring me nothing. I'll have to wait until tomorrow when I can talk to the bank. _I fucking hate waiting_. I stand up and stretch.

"Where are you going?"

I look around. I'd forgotten I dad was still there.

"To play the piano."

_Yeah, I can improvise._

"I want to talk to you about your new apartment first."

He points to a chair.

I fucking hate this: it reminds me of all those times I was brought in here to have the riot act read to me when I was a teenager. The drinking, the fighting, talking back to teachers at school. All the worry gave my parents a lot of grey hairs. I wish they'd stop worrying about me now – I can take care of myself. Haven't I proved that to them? I mean, fuck! I just paid $1.55 million cash for a new apartment. That's more than Elliot can do; that's more than my dad can do.

"What do you want to know?" I say in a surly tone.

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, how you're financing it, for a start."

"I paid cash."

He gapes. I've never seen my dad gape before: he reminds me of a big old bass I caught once. _Weird._

"How much did you pay, Christian?"

I sigh. It's really none of his business.

"Christian?"

"One point five five million dollars."

"Where… how… where did you get that sort of money?"

_Does he think I robbed a fucking bank?_

"Grey Cells has done well. I paid cash."

"Well… that's… that's really quite remarkable. Well done, Christian."

I wait for the 'but'; there's always a 'but'.

"Your mother will be very proud of you."

_Is that it?_

"Ok." We stare at each other. "Thanks."

He nods. I nod. Talk over.

I head into the main room and lift the lid of the piano. It's a nice instrument, an upright. But I'd really like to have a Steinway Grand, like my piano teacher, Miss Cathy used to have. That would sound great in the new apartment.

I add it on to my mental to-do list.

I haven't played for over a month and I feel rusty but then my hands start to warm up and the music, beautiful and discordant, begins to flow: Ravel's _Scarbo_.

I'm in a safe place when I play: control, focus, a flare of anger. That's what this music needs and right now it's what I need.

Suddenly I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me and my fingers fly off the keys at the sound of her voice.

"Oh, please! I didn't mean to disturb you. Don't stop, that was beautiful. You're very talented."

But I'm already closing the piano lid.

"I don't play for strangers," I say coolly, even though inside I'm struggling to keep my temper in check.

Jessica pales and looks shocked, although whether that's from my expression or my words, I can't tell.

Elliot comes striding in with Mia trailing behind looking upset.

"You know you can be a real asshole sometimes, Christian," says Elliot with angry eyes. "Jess was just being nice."

"I don't play for strangers," I repeat, like the fucking idiot that I am.

"It's not always about you," says Elliot quietly. "If you just took your head out of your ass, you might realise that other people's feelings deserve some consideration, too."

He pulls Jessica into a hug and leads her back outside and, after shaking her head at me, Mia follows.

_Yeah, the Christian Grey effect, ladies and gentleman. How to clear a room in fewer than ten words._

I shouldn't have come.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Finally. Finally I can move into my new apartment. There have been the usual irritating delays but I paid a company that specialises in executive removals to expedite it, and here I am. About fucking time.

There's a faint smell of fresh paint hanging in the air, even though I've opened every window. I wanted the whole place redecorated in white: cold, clinical, heartless. It suits me very well. I'll have to get some damn furniture to go in here. I guess I'll have hire an interior decorator to take care of it: I have neither the time nor interest. As long as they keep it simple, I can live with it.

I've emailed a budget to Kirsten so she can decorate her room however she wants, within reason. Nothing too bright or weird or my nosy little sister will be asking questions. Better still, I'll keep the door locked and say it's a storage closet.

But there's one new purchase that I intend to make myself: I can't subcontract this job to any one – and I don't want to.

So, on a Saturday morning in mid May, I find myself in front of Sherman Clay's on Fourth Avenue, impatiently waiting for 10am to arrive. They're two fucking minutes late opening up which puts me in a foul mood. How the fuck can these people run a business if they can't fucking open on time?

But my irritation evaporates when I explore the Steinway showroom, filled with the most beautiful instruments. Each piano is built individually and the grands can take up to a year to produce. The wood, rims, tops, soundboards and actions cure for months in special kilns and conditioning rooms, stabilizing the moisture content. I've ensured that the air temperature in my apartment will be consistent and sympathetic. I maybe a monster, but I can still appreciate a thing of beauty, like Caliban.

A salesman is watching me from a distance, a slight frown on his face. I don't look like his usual customer; I haven't bothered to shave, and I'm wearing old jeans and a plain, white shirt. It doesn't bother me; why should it? The jeans no more represent who I am than the most exquisite, tailored Savile Rowe suit: it's all a mask.

My decision should be fairly straight forward: either I'll go for the Music Room Grand, an instrument that has tone, clarity and pitch consistency, and at seven feet, will fill some of the space in my cavernous apartment; or I'll go for the Concert Grand, designed to work with a full symphony orchestra, and nearly nine feet in length. Excessive, perhaps, but a masterpiece of design and majesty. It would be $165,000 well spent.

But first I want to hear them: I won't know until then which I prefer to play.

The salesman's eyebrows disappear into his hairline when he hears my request.

"You… you wish to _play_ them?"

_Well, I'm not going to fucking tap-dance on them._

"Yes."

He tugs at his necktie and I can tell he doesn't know whether he's risking blowing off a sale that will ensure his bonuses for a year or risk letting a lunatic near a very expensive instrument.

"Sir is a pianist?"

"I play, yes."

I can tell he wanted a more definitive answer.

I see him looking for back up.

"If you'll just wait here, sir, I'll check with the manager."

It's irritating to have to wait, but there's nowhere else in the state that sells Steinways. For the best, I will wait, but I don't have to fucking like it.

Three minutes later he returns with the manager.

"My name is Bellamy. I understand you wish to try two of our instruments, Mr…?"

"Grey."

He doesn't recognise the name, but I'm not bothered by that. I've never understood people who feel the need to ask, 'Don't you know who I am?' Why would I care? I don't want anyone to know who I am. Ever.

"And are you intending to purchase an instrument, Mr Grey?"

"If I like it."

He knows we're playing a game and he gives a slight smile.

"Very well. Which instrument would you like to play first?"

"The Music Room Grand."

He escorts me towards the beautiful, gleaming piano, and dons a pair of gloves to expose the keyboard.

I seat myself on the stool, making small adjustments to ensure the pedals are in the correct position for me, and that my hands are a comfortable distance from the keys.

I depress the piano pedal, listening to the soft thrum as the dampeners press onto the strings: it sounds like the instrument is waking up, starting to breathe.

I run my hands up and down in a series of arpeggios, listening intently to the quality of the sound, the tone and pitch, feeling my way.

It reminds me of touching a woman: listening to her body, feeling her swell under my careful fingers, knowing exactly how much or how little pressure to exert; knowing the exact movement and moment when she'll fly over the edge, experiencing intense pleasure and release.

I know exactly what piece I want to play to hear to make this instrument sing: John Field's _Nocturne No. 10 in E Minor Adagio_. It sounds simple but Field's work is technically challenging. I begin to lose myself in the music, feeling rather than hearing the notes pour from my fingers. I'm also listening to the richness and clarity of the tone, the rise and fall of the pitch, trying to imagine how it will sound in my apartment.

Playing a beautiful instrument is not unlike running a company: the same dexterity is required; the same ability to listen and speak, hear and play; to know when less force or more is needed; to know when to hold back; to know when to go for the kill.

Too soon, the piece is finished and I find I am still in the real world, in a piano shop in Seattle. I can never fully lose myself – not for long. My shadow follows me wherever I go, mimicking me, mocking me.

"Mr Grey, that was… simply exquisite," says the manager, smiling at me.

And I can tell he is a real music lover because at this moment, he no longer cares about the sale; he cares that one of his beloved pianos will have a home with someone who will nurture it.

"Would you care to try the Concert Grand now, sir?"

"Thank you, Mr Bellamy, I would."

Again, I seat myself at the stool; again, I adjust it for height and distance from the pedals and keyboard; again, I warm up with a few arpeggios in both minor and major keys. The sound is astonishing, rich and full, designed for every note to be heard in a concert hall of 2,000 people.

I need a bigger piece of music to test its range. I begin to play Philip Glass's _Metamorphosis 2_, the sad, sweet music ranging across the octaves.

When I finish, both the salesman and Mr Bellamy are speechless. But I'm not sure: I want to test this piano a little more. I begin Bach's Italian Concerto but stop almost immediately.

"Ah, is there a problem, Mr Grey?"

"Not with the instrument, no."

The truth is that piece is too light, too buoyant for my tastes. I need something darker… yes, Messiaen's _Regard des anges._

Something in my eye-line disturbs me. I look up, irritated and am annoyed to see that I've attracted an audience. What the fuck is wrong with people? Why do they always stare? And the stupid fuckers applaud. What do they think I am? Some sort of circus freak, turning summersaults for their entertainment? I'm filled with irrational rage. This is private: my music is private.

I stand up and stalk away from the instrument.

"Mr Grey?" Bellamy comes up behind me, looking concerned. "Are you quite well?"

His question knocks me off balance.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'll take the Music Room Grand."

I fish out my credit card and hand it to him. He looks bemused but takes it.

"You play very well, Mr Grey," he says, hesitating, twisting my card in his hands. "Please don't think me presumptuous, although of course, that's exactly what I am, but if might suggest: you should control the music; the music should not control you."

For the first time I really see him. Not the manager in a suit, not the man who will take my money, not the man who is simply doing his job, but I see him – and he sees me. I can see that he is a good man; I think he can see that I am not.

"Thank you, Mr Bellamy. You are quite right. It has been… a long week."

My parents were hurt and disappointed after out disastrous family lunch; Mia isn't speaking to me; and Jessica went home in tears; and Daniel Roberts is trying to fuck over my latest acquisition. Yes, it has been a long week.

"I understand, Mr Grey. If you'll follow me, I'll have the paperwork completed for delivery of your instrument. A fine choice."

I spend the afternoon in two local galleries selecting works to add some color to my apartment. I don't really want decoration per se, but I know my family will expect it. My attempts at normalcy rarely work, but I will try. Besides, these are good investment pieces. From the James Harris Gallery I choose two wintery scenes by Tania Kitchell, an upcoming Canadian artist. In the Greg Kucera gallery, I'm intrigued by the erotica but don't make a purchase.

I intend to have my own floorshow tonight – and my first proper scene with Kirsten. These things need to be thought about; you can't just rush into them. Elena taught me that: planning, preparation, control. Works for me.

I haven't had time to make a proper playroom but necessity is the mother of invention, right? And this is fucking necessary. The way I'm feeling right now, I feel like I'm burning inside. I _have_ to get a fucking grip and this will help. But as it's Kirsten's first time here, I know I need to take it easy, built it up slowly. She needs to trust me before I explore her limits. Not that Elena took her time, but she could see what I was like. There are some things you have to build up to or risk injury: anal plugs, of course. But some of the bondage stuff needs preparation, too. I've seen people in clubs start to panic when they've been secured and find they can't move at all. Full on fucking panic attacks in the middle of a club: not a good scene.

I plan out everything carefully including the music. Tonight it's going to be Ástor Piazzolla: dark and moody, but not too heavy. A good introduction, I think. I have a Sancerre chilling and some cold pasta for later. She's an experienced sub, so I'm not expecting to have to feed her on arrival. But everyone is different; I can concede that.

My intercom buzzes at exactly 8pm. I'm glad she's punctual – I fucking hate waiting.

Two minutes later, she knocks on the door of my apartment.

"Good evening, Kirsten."

"Good evening, sir. Thank you for inviting me."

Her hair is long and loose around her shoulders, falling in waves to the middle of her back, and she smells of soap and body lotion. I don't like a lot of perfume on a woman. Kirsten already knows this: it was in my list of specifications. I'm pleased to see she's taken note.

"Please, come in."

She seems slightly keyed up, anxious perhaps. I must help her to relax.

"May I take your coat, Kirsten."

"Thank you, sir."

She undoes the buttons of her lightweight camel coat and I help to remove it from her shoulders. She seems surprised by the gesture.

_Yes, I can behave like a gentleman – even if I'm not one._

"I brought you a house-warming present, sir," she says, holding out a small, heavy box to me.

I'm taken aback.

_I am supposed to provide for her, not the other way around_.

"Thank you, Kirsten. That was… unnecessary, but very thoughtful."

I open it and unwrap a simple, wax candle, like the kind you might find in a church.

"It's unscented, sir, made from beeswax."

"Thank you."

I place it on my kitchen bar.

"Would you like a glass of Sancerre, Kirsten?"

"Yes, thank you, sir," she says gratefully.

"And would you like to see your room?"

She follows me through the apartment, pausing to look at my two new landscapes. I haven't had time to hang them yet.

"They're pretty," she says.

_Pretty? For fuck's sake! Does she know nothing about art? Hmm, probably not_. I let her comment pass, realizing she is trying to be pleasant.

Her room is undecorated and, for now, it's furnished simply with a large bed, white duvet, white oak chest of drawers and matching dressing table.

She walks through the room in silence, her fingers drifting over the duvet and across the dressing table as if she's absorbing the atmosphere itself.

"Thank you, sir," she says, turning to smile at me.

"You can do what you like with this room, within reason. Order what you like."

"May I see your playroom, sir?"

"I haven't had time to organise one yet, but don't worry, Kirsten; I think I've shown you already that I can improvise."

She blushes beautifully and my cock gets hard looking at her heightened color, imagining, remembering how ass will glow pink.

My designated playroom has dark red satin sheets and the curtains are open, with views across Seattle. I'm going to enjoy not having to close the curtains. Although this penthouse is only on the ninth floor, I'm not overlooked.

I've laid out my…

**Deleted scene to meet fanfic requirements. To read the unedited scene, go to my blog (details on my profile page)**

My mind empties as my body pours into her, and for the briefest most blissful of moments, I have no thoughts.

This is what I need: that moment of pure emptiness.

But it doesn't last, it never does.

I pull out of her and remove the condom carefully. I won't have to use these much longer, just another couple of weeks. I can't wait.

I undo the spreader bar and her wrist restraints. Carefully, I pull of the hair tie and slowly brush out her hair, so it's lying across the pillow like silk.

She looks so sweet lying there, all pink and fucked. Her hazel eyes blink up at me and she smiles.

"Time for bed, baby."

I pick her up in my arms and carry her into her room, placing her under the duvet. She rolls onto her side and immediately falls asleep.

I watch her for a moment, then leave the room, closing the door softly behind me.

I clear up the make-shift playroom, replacing my toys in the trunk under my bed.

Yes, that was a very satisfactory first scene, though I say it myself. I'm looking forward to thinking up something for the morning. I'll see how the mood takes me.

But now, I have to finalize my plans in teaching Daniel Roberts not to fuck around out of his league.

My first weekend with Kirsten has gone well. I've had to ask her leave before lunch on Sunday which is a pity because I was looking forward to seeing what she was going to cook. But nosy, fucking Elliot is insisting on coming over to see the new apartment.

I remove all traces of both playroom and guestroom, knowing he'll want to poke around everywhere.

But when the intercom buzzes, it's Mia's voice that I hear.

"Surprise! It's me, Christian! Well, and Elliot, but I know you'll want to see me the most!"

Minutes later my annoying little sister is flinging her arms around my neck and charging through the apartment like a small wildebeest.

"Hey, bro," says Elliot, lightly punching my arm. "Great pad you've got here. You could really have some swinging parties, if you were that way inclined, which you're not. But if you ever felt like loaning out to your big bro…"

"Never going to happen, Elliot," I say patiently.

He wanders around although it's clear he doesn't have much interest in looking at empty rooms with white walls.

"How's Jessica?" I say, carefully.

"Nah, dumped her, man. She was always crying. You know what these sensitive musician types are like?"

He raises his eyebrows at me and smirks.

"She was such a wuss," agrees Mia, who has opened every door, closet, cupboard and bathroom in the place. "She got sick, like, just stepping onto the sail boat." She rolls her eyes. "Can you believe it? Elliot, you've got to get a cool girlfriend, someone who likes shopping?"

"I'll see what I can go, sis," he says pleasantly.

She pouts adorably.

"Christian, will you take me shopping. You're good at clothes and stuff, not like Elliot. He's such a _boy_."

"Guess that lets you out, dude," says Elliot, winking at me. "So, Mia, are you going to tell your second favorite brother why you're here."

"Oh, yes! Christian, what are we going to do for your birthday?"

"Nothing," I say, firmly.

"Oh, but you have to!" she whines. "You're going to be twenty-one! You have to do something special. It's like, practically the law or something!"

"It's going to happen, Mia," I repeat.

My patience is being sorely tested, but I feel calmer than usual, thanks to Kirsten.

"It'll be _fun_, Christian!" she scolds, practically begging me. "You can invite all your friends and…"

She stops suddenly. We both know I don't have any friends. She puts her hand over mouth, horrified at what she's said.

"Maybe just a quiet family dinner, bro," says Elliot, sympathetically. "Mom and dad would like that."

"Maybe," I say, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

But I don't understand. Why would anyone want to celebrate the date of my birth?

_I know I fucking don't._

**Thanks so much to everyone for your great comments. I read and appreciate them all.**

**If you like my writing, I hope you might consider trying my original novel 'The Education of Sebastian', published this week on Amazon and Smashwords.**

**Thank you.**

**Jane Harvey-Berrick**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 – 21st Birthday

Daniel Roberts is really a slimy piece of shit and I'm looking forward to cutting off his balls and mailing them to him one by one – assuming he's got more than one.

He's been trying to fuck up a deal that I've spent nearly a thousand man-hours on. But he's underestimated me badly. And he's using the wrong fucking bank. He's using _my_ bank. And Grant Wilson, the new business manager, has made some serious bucks and some very nice bonuses off the back of investing in GEH. So, it goes without saying that Wilson wants my business a lot more than Daniels'. I'm _really_ going to enjoy making this call.

Five minutes later, the deal is done: Daniels Junior is fucked. Time to tell Ros the good news – so I call her up to my office.

"Good morning, Christian," she says, raising her eyebrows. "Do I detect a smile, or did the world end and nobody told me?"

She's the only one of my staff who I allow to speak to me like that. Maybe it's because she reminds of Elliot: they both hide their sharp intellect behind a façade of irreverent humor. It's refreshing: everyone else at GEH avoids making eye contact with me. Except for Barney – he's so fucking vacant, he doesn't see what's in front of him unless it's a row of zeroes and ones. He's fucking lethal just walking along a level surface. I might have to get the walls padded on the route from his office to mine.

"Ros, the Daniels problem is history. I found out that One Pacific was bankrolling the deal. I made a call to Wilson."

"Damn, Christian! How did you find that out? I tried everyone I knew… every search engine I could think of!"

I realize that I'm smirking at her – but I can't help it. I feel… what do I feel? It feels… okay, I guess.

"We should celebrate," she says. "This is excellent news. It'll give GEH a really broad, commercial base. Sky's the limit, Christian. And all before you're 21."

"Not exactly, Ros."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

_Fuck. I wish I hadn't mentioned it now_.

"Christian?" she prompts me.

_Ah, fuck it._

"It's my birthday."

"Excuse me?"

_What – am I suddenly talking Mandarin?_

"It's my birthday, Ros. I'm 21. Today."

She gapes at me. _Not a good look_.

"You're telling me it's your 21st birthday _today_, and you've come into work as normal?"

"Of course."

_What else would I be doing?_

"Jeez, Christian. Don't you want to… I don't know… go out and get drunk – legally? Party likes it's 1999? Do something, oh, let's see… something reckless? Something out of control? _Twenty-one!_ That's a big deal!"

I shrug. She's just like _them_ – my family. They've been on and on at me to _do_ something to celebrate. But celebrating the day some crack whore gave birth to a fatherless bastard hardly seems like a reason to put out the flags. Why am I the only one who understands this?

Her face falls and she looks… sad.

_Sad for me?_

"Aren't you going to do anything to celebrate?" she asks, in a pained voice.

"I'm having dinner with my family."

"Yes, because family meals are so much _fun_," she says, rolling her eyes.

_Can't argue with that evaluation_.

"Aren't you doing anything for yourself?" she continues.

As it happens, I am. "I have a flying lesson tomorrow."

"But you've already got your glider's license?"

"This is for a helicopter pilot's license."

She laughs out loud, although I don't understand why.

"And then… what? A private helicopter? Your own private jet?"

Her jaw sags when she notes that nothing about her comment amuses me.

"Well, Christian, if anyone can do it, you can." As she leaves my office, she calls over her shoulder, "And congrats on sorting out that Daniels creep."

At noon, I'm working on the debt-equity structure and risk-balancing maximizer for my new company. The columns and swirls of figures make perfect sense to me, as easy as reading musical notes on a score. I do it quickly and I do it just once: it's what I'm good at. No fucking complicated emotions to consider; no human dynamics – just black-and-white figures. Simple. I can't hurt these numbers. I can't affect them with my fucked upness. I can improve them, I can make them flow and sing. I can mend broken companies. It gives me a moment of clarity and calm.

And then, fucking Ros knocks on my door.

"Come on, Christian, we're going out."

I frown and glance at my calendar. We have no meeting scheduled.

"What for?"

She rolls her eyes. "To have lunch – and to celebrate your birthday."

"For fuck's sake, Ros! Do I look like I want to fucking celebrate my birthday?"

She laughs. _She fucking laughs at me!_

"Not especially, but give it a chance and you might shock yourself by having _fun_."

_I seriously fucking doubt that_.

"Come on. I've booked us a table. Get your jacket."

"No, I'm busy."

"Bullshit, Christian. You just told me yourself you've nailed Daniels, so the pressure is off for now. Besides, I've called Gwen and she's meeting us there. She's been bugging me about seeing you again, and it would be _rude_ to keep her waiting."

_Damn it. She's found my weak spot – another fucking weak spot._

I roll down my sleeves, replace the cufflinks and slide my jacket on. Ros is smirking at me. _It's really fucking annoying._

She's picked one of those trendy places with stripped wood floors, a row of stools around the central bar and several wooden tables – the kind of place I'd usually go some distance to avoid. Gwen is sitting by the window, studying the menu, a small frown of concentration creasing her forehead. I glance across at Ros and I see a look of adoration, of love on her face. Ros is a smart woman, and she _knows_ how fucking lucky she is to have that connection with another human being. It's rare: my parents have it and, perhaps, my mom's parents, but I don't know anyone else who does. I know I never will. I don't resent Ros's happiness – or Gwen's. They're good people: they deserve it.

Gwen looks up and sees us as we walk through the door.

"Christian! Happy Birthday!" she yells, at full volume.

Several people turn around to stare and Ros winces slightly, but Gwen's exuberance almost makes me smile. She reminds me of Mia.

Gwen kisses me on the cheek but reserves her full-body tackle hug for Ros, thank fuck. It wouldn't have been a great start to lunch if I'd had a meltdown over her touching me. Kind of puts a dampener on proceedings when one of the participants is frozen in fucking fear. Believe me, I know. I've been present at, or party to, every kind of excruciating social gaffe known to man – especially a fatally fucked up one.

One of the worst was when I was 14. Mom and dad were having their usual Christmas party for friends and neighbors, and the Grey kids were expected to hand around the mulled wine and make small talk with the adults. Mia was there being all cute and gappy-toothed, and Elliot was being all smooth and sort of flirting with mom's colleagues which they all thought was hilarious. And then there was me: the ghost at the party. I tried, I really did. I wanted to please mom and dad, especially after a fucking awful week where I'd been sent home from school for fighting, again.

I'd been doing my best, doing the talking thing and trying to smile, when this woman from dad's office who'd had too many drinks sort of lunged at me; she wanted to stroke my hair, for fuck's sake, saying some shit about how much she liked the color. I stepped backwards and tripped over someone, then fell, sprawling across the sofa, and that ghastly fucking woman landed on top of me. I thought I was going to have a fucking heart attack. She was laughing, and ruffling my hair, and just wouldn't let go and wouldn't get off me – I felt like I was suffocating; the fear was unbearable. It was a real, physical pain. In the end, Elliot managed to pry her off and mom let me go to my room. It was about half-an-hour before my heart stopped trying to break out of my ribs. I'm surprised the whole fucking thing didn't turn me into an agoraphobic, or even more of an anti-social bastard than I am now.

I remember Mia came up and sat with me. For someone who's so loud and full-on, as a kid she was really great at calming me down. She just talked about some dumb stuff she'd been doing with that vile friend of hers, Lily, and being _normal_. It always helped: it still does. Sometimes.

"So, today's the big day, Christian! How does it feel?" says Gwen, in an irritatingly cheery voice.

_Why do people always ask me how it 'feels'? How the fuck should I know?_

"Fine, thank you, Gwen."

She rolls her eyes. "So formal, Christian. I'm sure you can't always be so staid; there must be a dark side to you as well."

I suck in a sharp breath, then realize she's teasing me. Of course.

Ros gives her a warning stare and Gwen blushes slightly.

"Let's order," Ros suggests, breaking the awkward silence.

I choose the Calabrian-style beef, Ros has duck and Gwen orders risotto.

Then we sit back and stare at each other.

_Fuck, I hate these miserable, fucking social 'occasions'._

One tactic that always works is to ask someone about themselves.

"So, Gwen, how's the latest campaign going?"

Gwen's a creative director at one of the top advertising agencies in Seattle. Ros has shown me some of her work: I can see why she's so successful.

"Pretty damn good, Christian. We won the Hermès account. But I know you're just trying to distract me. It's your birthday – let's talk about you. What have you got planned?"

"He's having dinner with his parents," says Ros, her tone too neutral.

"And then what?" says Gwen, leaning forward.

_What's the fucking interest?_

"I'm having a flying lesson tomorrow. Helicopter."

"Uh-huh, great. And?"

_This is getting fucking irritating._

"Gwen," says Ros in a warning voice.

Gwen looks up, surprised by Ros's sharp tone.

"What? I'm just asking! Aren't we being invited to the big party?"

I lean back in my chair.

"No. No party. Fucking waste of time."

And finally Gwen gets it, and proceeds to take great interest in her seafood risotto.

Suddenly, I'm blinded by a light flashing in my face.

"What the fuck?"

I'm half on my feet, taking a defensive stance, just in time to see a man with a large camera scurrying out of the door.

"Jeez, Christian!" mutters Ros, holding a hand over her heart. "I think you just got papped."

_For fuck's sake! Can this birthday be any more 'fun'?_

After that, I insist that we are moved to a table at the back of the restaurant. The manager apologizes at least a dozen times but I can tell that he's secretly pleased – all he has to do now is to work out who the fuck I am. _And if he finds out, maybe he could let me know, too._

I make a decision that private-member dining clubs are definitely worth checking out.

It amuses me that Gwen's main concern is that neither she nor Ros were in the photograph, as the idiot's camera was aimed solely at me.

"It'll look like you're having lunch by yourself, like a Johnny-no-friends," she says, indignantly.

I shrug, because that's pretty much the truth anyway. I've got my family, I've got my work colleagues, and I've got Elena. I'm not missing out on anything, am I?

I refuse a dessert and sit back drinking black coffee, whilst Gwen devours a Zabaglione and Ros finishes off with cheese and fruit.

But as soon as Ros disappears to the restroom, Gwen pins me with her bright gaze.

"I was hoping to get a chance to speak to you alone, Christian."

_Here it comes: 'Ros works too late; Ros works at weekends; you work her too hard…_ I'm expecting it.

"I wanted to thank you."

_What?_

"Thank me? For what?"

Gwen smiles.

"You look surprised, Christian, but the truth is Ros has been a different woman since she started working for you. Oh, you were probably expecting me to chew you out for the long hours! Well, that's up to her – and she wouldn't listen to me if I told her to slow down anyway. But the point is, she's been so much happier since you took charge of SIC – well, GIC or GEH, whatever. She'd reached her limit in this town – she was thinking of leaving Seattle for good. New York, probably. Talk about a glass ceiling – it's double-fucking-glazing for women like us. But you don't give care about that, do you?"

_This is fucking excruciating_. Why the hell does she want to tell me this personal stuff? This is why it's a golden fucking rule never to mix business with… well, this isn't fucking pleasure, that's for sure.

"Ros does the job I pay her for, and she does it well. That's all."

Gwen leans back in her chair and gazes at me.

"It's so easy to forget how young you are sometimes, Christian."

_What the fuck?_

"Sorry. That sounded patronizing and I didn't mean it to… Ros has worked a long time and got nowhere, and that Daniels guy was a total douche-bag: he never listened to any of her ideas and was always putting her down. Ros is tough, but that shit gets to you after a while. Now she can really get her teeth into her work. She's happy – I have you to thank for that. So… thank you, Christian."

Ros returns, thank fuck, and I'm saved from having to respond. I'm really fucking grateful that Ros isn't into all that emotional shit – I wouldn't be able to stand listening to that all day long.

As we leave the restaurant, I start feeling tense, wondering whether Gwen is going to step over more boundaries and try to… embrace me in some way. I keep my distance and I'm so relieved when she does the same. I haven't said anything to Ros but I wonder if she's mentioned my aversion to Gwen, because I kind of get that feeling. Gwen is definitely the type of woman who lunges like a linebacker.

Instead she just smiles and wishes me a happy birthday.

_It'll be a lot fucking happier if everyone would stop saying that._

As I walk back to the office with Ros, I can see her smiling at me out of the corner of my eye.

"What?" I say, briskly.

"Just wondering… you look like you've been 'Gwened'. She really likes you: I can tell."

_What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?_

"Make sure Daniels is totally out of the deal: I don't want him coming back and haunting us like some fucking revenant."

Ros smiles, but she just nods and doesn't comment further.

I'm relieved when we're back at the office and for a few hours I can focus again. But then Susan, my fucking useless PA knocks on the door.

"Um, do you need anything else, Mr Grey? Will it be ok if I go now?"

_Same every fucking day. I would have thought she'd have died of boredom by now, saying the same thing, day in, day out. I know I would have._

"Yes, thank you, Susan."

"Um…"

_Oh, what now, for fuck's sake?_

"You know that check you gave for my church?"

"Yes?"

"For Darfur?"

_I already said 'yes'._

"Well, they were all real grateful and everything."

_She couldn't get to the fucking point if she had a fucking map_.

"Good."

"Well, um, Ms Bailey just happened to mention that you were, um, celebrating your birthday… so, um, I went home at lunchtime and, um, I baked you a cake."

She lays a chocolate sponge cake on the desk in front of me.

And the memories come flooding back.

_Licking cake mix from a wooden spoon; the warm, wonderfully evocative smells of a cake baking; eating it warm from the oven. I remember. I remember… the cake being thrown on the floor; screaming, shouting, more screaming._

I stand up suddenly, needing to move, and realize that Susan is still waiting in front of me, and she looks terrified.

_Control it, Grey. Fucking rein it in_.

I breathe deeply and try to calm my spinning senses.

"Thank you, Susan. That was… thank you."

She ducks out of the office, looking as if she's just faced down a wild animal. _Yeah, that's about right: the thin veneer of civilization._

I sit down again, staring at the cake. It doesn't make any sense.

I'm almost relieved when it's time to get in my car and leave the office: that doesn't happen very often. At the last moment, I take the fucking cake with me. I have no idea what I'm going to do with it.

Mia must have been watching for me, because she comes bouncing out of the house and throws herself at me.

"Christian! You've been so long! I thought for sure you'd be here like _hours_ ago! We've got you presents and everything. Mom let me make you a cake. The frosting isn't set yet, but you won't mind that. It's chocolate – your favorite."

_More fucking cake._

I still haven't managed to get a word in, but that's Mia.

I see mom hovering in the porch.

"Hello, darling. Happy birthday!"

"Damn it! I forgot to say 'happy birthday'!" moans Mia.

"Language," says mom, a warning clear in her voice.

"Oh, mom! Christian swears more than anyone _ever_ – he won't mind!"

"Hmm, well, _I_ mind and you father will definitely mind."

Mia scowls and pouts at the same time. It's fucking funny.

Mom kisses me lightly on my cheek, respecting my personal space, and we walk into the house.

Dad comes out to shake my hand.

"Happy birthday, son. Twenty-one: doesn't seem possible. Scrawny little thing you were when you first came here – seems like yesterday. And now look at you."

"Yeah, but I can still kick his ass! Hey, bro! Big two-one, huh? Finally get drunk legally."

There's a moment's silence as we all remember the many times I was drunk when I was a teenager.

Mom throws Elliot a glare but he just winks at her.

"Don't worry, mom," he says, "Christian is so square these days, you could use him for bookends."

The thought pulses through my brain: _they don't know me; they don't know me_. If they did, they wouldn't want me here, playing happy families with them.

And then I hear her voice.

"Congratulations, Christian."

I turn and see her.

"Thank you, Elena."

She hands me a glass of champagne, which I take automatically, and she steers me through the living room and outside to the patio, while my family laugh and joke together, moving easily in each other's company.

We stare out across the grass, breathing in the scent of summer roses.

I've always enjoyed this view from my parents' house, out across the water. The first time I saw it, I thought it was a fairytale castle. Even now it feels like a place of peace. Sometimes I would lean out of my bedroom window and listen to Mia and Elliot teasing each other, mom and dad laughing, and even though I wasn't part of that, it always felt like a safe place.

"You've done well, Christian," says Elena, turning her head to gaze at me, a slight smile on her lips.

She looks beautiful tonight, dressed as always in her habitual black. It makes her platinum hair glow, emphasizing the redness of her lips. Just looking at her used to make me hard, which was awkward when I was a teenager, but now I simply see someone who helped me, someone who knows me better than anyone. I don't desire her anymore – it's a strange feeling; almost one of loss.

"Thank you."

"And you look well. Being on top suits you."

I know she's trying to needle me, so I don't bother with a reply.

"I'm sure this little family celebration here tonight is something you've been looking forward to."

Her comment makes me frown. I don't like to hear her criticizing my family. Although, she's right, of course.

"Have you achieved everything you wanted to achieve?"

I stare at her in amazement. _Is she fucking kidding me?_

"I mean, your own apartment – fully paid for – Grace tells me; your own diverse business portfolio; master of your own destiny; answerable to no-one."

I shrug. How do I explain? I'm good at one thing: mending broken companies. If I can make any positive difference in the world, it is by doing this. But driving me is the necessity of never being hungry again. I can't explain this to anyone who hasn't experienced it: I know, intellectually, rationally that starvation will never happen, but the fear pushes me on. I'm always running from it, and those spectres, those shadows, they are always chasing close behind. You can't out-run your past, and believe me, I've fucking tried.

"I told you it would happen for you. All you needed was control and discipline. But then you always enjoyed both those things, didn't you, Christian?"

I stare back at her, coldly. This is not the time and place for memory fucking lane.

"I have a proposition for you."

My eyes narrow automatically and she laughs a silvery, chiming laugh.

"I wasn't actually thinking of that sort of proposition! Although I'm flattered that you'd still consider it."

_No, I fucking wouldn't._

"I'm looking for a business partner, Christian, and I thought of you. Esclava is doing well, but it needs to expand. I've seen a number of retail sites that I'm interested in."

"I know fuck-all about the beauty business, Elena."

"Don't be tiresome, Christian. I do. And, as it turns out, I'm very good at it. Despite what others may have thought. You'd be a silent partner, of course, and I'd run things as I see fit."

"So, you want money."

"I want investment, Christian, as did you once, I seem to recall."

"I'm not arguing that point, Elena. How much do you want?"

"Two million. For now."

"Fine. Whatever. Call my lawyers on Monday and set up the appointment."

She smiles, and touches my arm.

"I'm going to enjoy being in business with you, Christian. We were always a good team."

I'm saved a reply when Mom calls us in to dinner, and we all take a seat around the dining table. Then dad stands up. _Oh fuck! He's going to make a speech_.

"Unaccustomed as I am…"

Mia yawns and giggles, and Elliot makes noises like a deranged gibbon. Dad laughs.

"Seriously, twenty-one is a big deal, Christian. It's been quite a year for you… you may not have made all the choices that we'd hoped for… but you've proved yourself over and over. We're all very proud of you: _I'm_ very proud of you, son. Happy birthday, Christian."

They all raise their glasses in a toast and I feel so guilty. They have always loved me, always done their best for me, through all the fucked up years, and they've never walked away from me. Sitting here, seeing their faces glow with love, I feel so twisted inside. They're celebrating the birthday of a man who doesn't exist, because the person he's described is not me.

"Hey, dad, don't forget he's Seattle's 'most eligible bachelor'. That's a real achievement!" Elliot smirks at me and I'm relieved the mood has been broken, even if my brother is a five-star fucking ass.

"All my friends think you're dreamy, Christian." Mia rolls her eyes. "It's so annoying. The new girl, Chloe, she said to me, 'Oh, you must be Christian Grey's sister,' and I said, 'no, Christian Grey is my brother'. Ugh. Don't get any more famous – unless I can be in the newspaper, too."

After the meal, which thankfully doesn't focus on me for much longer, Mia drags me into the kitchen to look at her cake – my cake – the cake she's made for me.

She explains how she used ground almonds rather than flour to give it extra texture and flavor, and how she used the best dark chocolate from Panama. I'm half-surprised she doesn't tell me the names of the hens that laid the fucking eggs she used to make the cake. But I understand it, too. She wants to know everything about how to make the best cake she can – it's the underlying principle of how I operate, too. It's about attention to detail. And my dark heart is in awe, because my sister has done this for me.

"And you have to promise to play for me later, Christian," she says. "I thought I'd see you loads when you came back to Seattle, but I don't. You're always working, it's so boring. You should have more _fun_, Christian. You should take me shopping with you – there's a new shop opened up that sells John Lobb shoes. You _have _to get some. They're so cool. And you simply _have _to get your suits made by Gian DeCaro. _Promise_ me, Christian!"

"You can be my personal shopper, Mia."

She throws her arms around me and hugs me.

"You're just the _best_ brother, Christian."

"Hey, what about me?" laughs Elliot, who's wandered in to the kitchen to join us.

"You're my other best brother," replies Mia, her voice all muffled, as she presses her face into my shirt.

Then she lets me go and dances off, intent on the next mission now she's got her own way.

"So, little bro, how you doing? Seriously? All this family shit getting to you yet?"

I shrug. "It's ok."

"Yeah, well, it can get a bit… intense. So, how's about you and me hitting the town and painting it red? Or pink? Your choice of color. I'm kidding! Okay, hey, wait: mom said you're doing your helicopter thing tomorrow, but how about we head out and catch us some steelheads after – we haven't done that for a while. Take some food with us, a few beers… no phones. Take some time off. Whaddya say?"

_Taking time off? _

"Sure, Elliot. Sounds good."

He looks surprised. "Really? You'll come? Cool. Okay, can I drive you car?"

"Fuck off, Elliot."

He laughs. "Okay, bro, but if you're driving, I get to drink the beer. Deal?"

"Whatever."

"What was Elena saying to you earlier?"

I frown at him. _What did he hear?_

"About seeing an attorney?"

"Just some business she wants me to help her with."

"Oh. For a moment I thought… Well, that's cool. Mom says she hasn't seen her so much lately. Jeez, there was a time when she was here almost every day. You remember that?"

_Do I fucking remember?_ It was part of Elena's 'training': getting me used to being around her, but not being able to touch her; making sure I practiced how not to give us away. At least, that's what she said. I did wonder if part of it was just a game to her. _Yeah, I definitely remembered that_.

_I watched her from the top of the stairs. She was wearing a tight fitting cocktail dress that showed her figure, and, looking down, I could see the curve of her breasts. Just seeing her was a fucking turn on. She glanced up and I saw her lips lift in a smile. She knew I was there, watching, silent._

"_Christian, Elena has arrived. Could you come and take her coat, please?"_

_Mom wants me to join in, be part of the family._

"_And then, if you could help Elliot and Mia serve the canapés."_

_I've dressed carefully today. Elena said she likes clothes to be simple and well cut. So I'm wearing black chinos and my favorite white linen shirt, with a narrow black tie. Mom said she thought it looked funereal, but I know Elena will like it._

_I slid the coat off her shoulders, letting my fingers drift across her warm skin at the nape of her neck. I know this will please her. She's spent a lot of time teaching me how and where to touch her._

_When more people arrived and mom and dad were too busy to notice, I headed upstairs to the guest bedroom. Elena was waiting for me. _

_She closed the door behind me and locked it. The she wrapped her hand around my wrist and forced it behind my back so it was almost painful, and she kissed me hard, pressing herself into my body, feeling my arousal._

_Then she made me turn around and slapped my ass – hard. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. Then she left._

"Yo, Christian! Earth calling Christian Grey! Where d'you go, man? So we cool about the fishing?"

"Yes, fine, Elliot. I'll pick you up at 2pm."

"What are you two plotting?" says Mom, walking over to us with a smile on her face.

"Just arranging a little fishing, mom. I didn't even have to twist his arm: he just said 'yes'. Go figure."

"Don't tease your brother, Elliot."

"Jeez, mom, you've been saying the same things since I was six!"

"Yes, well, about time you started taking notice of me then, isn't it?"

Elliot laughs and mom grins back at him.

When Elliot has wandered away, mom links her arm through mine.

"It's been quite a year for you, Christian. The business is doing well, I understand?"

"Yes."

"Your father and I are really proud of you. I know he can be… well, you know your father, but we both love you very much, you do know that don't you?"

_It's so hard for me to listen to this when I know I don't deserve their love._

"Sure, mom. Don't worry about it."

"Oh, Christian, I do worry about you. That's my job. But… I know you're working hard to build up GEH, but there is more to life than work. And I'm a doctor! I just want you to be happy – that's all that's ever mattered to me."

"Mom, work makes me… happy. It's going well. You don't have to worry about me. Not anymore."

"Christian: just because you're 21… or 31… or 41… it doesn't mean I'll ever stop worrying about you."

I roll my eyes at her.

"Ok, mom. I get the message. "But at 51, I'm off the hook, right?"

"Oh, I very much doubt that. I'll let you know. But I meant what I said: you need to make time for yourself and for your family. Work isn't everything; being successful isn't everything. Happiness is something that comes from within, Christian."

_Fuck, I know that. That's why I'll never have it – because all that's within me is darkness._

The first time I saw my mom, she was dressed all in white. I realized later that it was because she was wearing a doctor's white coat, but the scared little shit I was, I thought she was an angel. That feeling has never gone away. I'd do anything, _anything_ for her. I'd do 'happiness' if I could, if I knew how.

"I'm doing ok, mom. And I've got a flying lesson tomorrow. Being in the sky, away from the earth and everything, it… helps."

She raises a tentative hand to my cheek.

"My beautiful boy."

_It's just a face._

"Now, come and play for us. Something cheerful – not your usual music, Christian. It is your birthday – a little cheer will go a long way."

watch?v=mDeFdGzthV0

Not really my thing, but for my mom, of course I will. I wonder if I can get away with _Voi Che Sapete_. I play the opening bars and Mia gives me a look.

"Christian! Mom said _cheerful_. I mean, 'What is this sorrow naught can dispel?' Duh!"

I can't help smiling at her. Ok, _fucking cheerful_ coming up.

watch?v=csl_Lb2A5Ts&playnext=1&list=PLDCB158CB362DF68B&feature=results_video

I choose Mozart's Sonata in F Major – the third movement is a Rondo – that should be fucking cheerful enough. What is it Emperor Joseph II said about Mozart's music, 'too many notes'. That always makes me laugh.

Yeah, I'm a funny guy.

As I sit down at the piano, I get a text. Dad frowns and mom shakes her head. I glance at the message.

* Sir. I'm lonely. Can I come and play later? *

I text back.

* 2 hours *

Suddenly, my birthday is looking up – and the jolly German's music doesn't seem so fucking irritating.

I can see Elena watching me from the corner of the room, a slight smile on her face. I wonder if she's had a hand in this. I wouldn't put it past her to have gotten hold of Kirsten's cellphone number.

I try to stare her out but she just carries on smiling at me. I try to school my face to impassive but she knows me too well to be fooled. Sometimes I really fucking hate that.

At 11pm, I take my leave. Mia has already been sent to bed, much to her irritation and everyone else's amusement. Elena bowed out shortly after I got my message, and Elliot is leaving at the same time as me.

"Gotta blow, bro. Early meeting with a contractor. But we'll hook up for the fishing thing. Laters."

He thumps me on the shoulder and heads off down the drive, gravel spinning out behind his wheels.

Mom shakes her head. "It's a good thing your brother works in construction, because he's certainly taking his toll on her drive."

"Bye, mom. Thanks for a great birthday."

She hugs me gently and kisses me briefly.

"I hope you enjoyed it."

"Sure, mom."

"Call me soon, Christian. Don't forget."

"I won't. Bye dad."

We shake hands and I drive away. As I glance in the rearview mirror, I see they're standing on the porch, still watching me.

Ahead of me I can see blue lights flashing. There's been an accident and some poor bastard's night has ended very badly. I can see a car lying on its back like a stranded turtle, three wheels pointing into the darkness.

Cars crawl past as people gawk at the sight, and an irritated traffic cop waves me past.

Life is short. Some lives are shorter than others. Another few years and I'll have lived longer than the crack whore.

_Some fucking life._

And if she'd lived? What would I have been?

_As if I didn't know._

The accident makes me late. I fucking hate being late.

As I drive past my building's entrance to the underground garage, I see Kirsten parking her car. _Fuck! _Is that what she drives? What a piece of shit! It can't be roadworthy – the only thing that's holding it together is rust. _No fucking way_. I've seen one accident tonight – I'm not risking her life in that heap of junk.

It puts me in a foul fucking mood. I know what she should be driving: either the Audi A3 – although the steptronic gearbox is a bit jerky, but it has an excellent record on safety and reliability; option two is the Lexus CT200. Hmm, maybe not.

By the time she's knocks on the apartment door, I've calmed down a little, and opened a bottle of chilled Sancerre.

When she enters, my suspicions about Elena's involvement increase.

"This is for you, sir. Happy birthday."

Another fucking birthday cake. Chocolate. _This is fucking crazy!_

"I'd like to know how you knew that it was my birthday, Kirsten, because I thought my family were the only ones who knew."

Her lip trembles. "Have I done wrong, sir? Will you punish me?"

_Oh, fucking yes._

She lowers her eyes and speaks in a quiet voice. "I didn't mean anything by it, sir. Miss Christine told me. I suppose she knew from your application form. I guess she thought it would be… nice. I made it myself, sir."

And I realize I'm being fucking rude keeping her standing on the threshold.

"Thank you, Kirsten. That was thoughtful. Please, come in."

I slip her coat off her shoulders and lead her into the living room.

"A glass of Sancerre?"

"Thank you, sir." She hesitates. "Will you try the cake, sir? It goes great with white wine. Chocolate cake goes great with anything."

Her comment amuses me.

"Well, why not. But you'll have to forgive me, Kirsten, I've had a large meal tonight so I'll just have a taste. But I'd like you to have some. Please, sit down."

I cut a slice of the cake. I'm touched that she's made such an effort with it, no matter how clumsy and amateurish. Placing the slice on a plate, I pull a fork from the drawer and then carry them both over to the sofa.

"Have you eaten tonight, Kirsten?"

"Yes, sir. A healthy meal."

"Good. Would you like some cake?"

"I'd like anything you can give me, sir."

And the way she looks at me, both demure and wanton, really fucking turns me on.

I taste the cake: it's not bad. She watches as I slide more cake onto the fork, and hold it out towards her. She opens her mouth and takes the cake, closing her eyes and eating slowly. Another piece follows, her eyes watching me, her moist mouth moving soundlessly.

She finishes the whole slice, as I feed her piece by piece. She has a small crumb by the side of her mouth. I wipe it with my finger, and she catches it in her mouth, sucking hard.

"Naughty girl," I whisper, and she releases my finger instantly.

I take a sip of wine, and she does the same.

"I brought something else, sir."

"Oh?"

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle of baby lotion and hands it to me.

_What the fuck?_

She sees my confusion.

"It's pleasant to massage into the skin… after, sir. If you don't mind. It's soothing."

And, for the first time, I understand that there is a gulf between what Elena has told me and how a Dom is expected to act. Christine was right when she said that Elena's style was 'intense'. So, baby lotion?

"That's fine, Kirsten. I don't mind at all. Put it in the guest room for later."

She nods and gives a small smile.

"Has it been a long day, sir?"

I'm surprised by her question; it's too… personal.

"Of the usual length, Kirsten."

She looks down, knowing she's overstepped her place.

"Wait for me in the guestroom, please."

And she does.

I haven't had time to prepare for this, but during the drive back from Bellevue, I've planned out what I wanted to do.

I stand in the doorway of the guestroom, my ersatz playroom, and Kirsten's hair tumbles down in soft curls. I take pleasure in braiding it, leaving a shining coil down her back.

"You have lovely skin, Kirsten," I say, as I run my fingers over her shoulders.

I feel her shiver, and it's not from cold.

"Stand up. I'm going to blindfold you: I want you to feel everything."

I help her to her feet and slowly unknot my tie.

"Turn around."

I fasten the tie over her eyes and lead her towards the bed. I notice the bottle of baby lotion is close to hand. _A massage later?_ That has possibilities that I'm really fucking looking forward to investigating.

"Lie on the bed and raise your hands above your head."

She lies back, her breathing accelerating, her body becoming aroused.

"Hands above your head."

I lean over her to cuff her wrists and she moans softly.

"Hush now.

**Deleted scene – for the unedited version, please go to my blog**

"Fifteen… please, sir. I want you, sir!"

_Oh fucking yes_.

I move in slowly, feeling her sweet, soft flesh closing around me, hot and tight. Her body quivers, and I pull out slowly, then in again.

And again.

I let the speed increase as my body demands release, until I'm slamming into her, feeling the bed move beneath us, riding her hard.

She cries out loudly as I spill into her, and I release the clamps, causing her to cry out again.

_Fuck, that felt good_.

Quickly, I undo the cuffs from the head of the bed, but leave her wrists secured so she can't touch me by mistake. She rolls onto her side and I curl my body around hers, draping one arm over her waist.

She takes my hand awkwardly and strokes my fingers.

"Thank you, sir," she whispers.

"My pleasure, Kirsten."

_Your pleasure, at my pleasure_.

And I wonder why anybody would want anything else: it's the fucking perfect relationship, and we've both got what we want.

_Not such a bad birthday after all_. And we haven't even gotten to the baby lotion yet. Good thing I don't need much sleep.

_Right: time to test Kirsten's stamina._

**Thanks to everyone who has bought 'The Education of Sebastian' – already! You guys are great.**

**Thank you!**

**Jane Harvey-Berrick**


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"I haven't seen you since your birthday, Christian. Your mother says you've been working hard, of course. She misses you."

Elena called me, insisting I take her to dinner. She wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Which is why we're sharing a bottle of Pont Neuilly in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Her comment makes me frown: my relationship with my mother is nothing to do with Elena. And I have no intention of discussing it with her. She needs to be reminded of the fucking boundaries.

"Why am I here, Elena?"

"Do I need a reason to catch up with an old friend?"

I sit calmly, watching her face. Of course there's a reason: she just hasn't decided to tell me what it is yet. Elena likes to play games. That hasn't changed. She'll tell me when she's ready. How fucking tedious.

And it occurs to me that because she no longer has any control over my body, she tries to exercise control over my mind. Or over my emotions – what I have of them. She's trying to antagonize me, make me react, show irritation – something, anything. She knows I don't want to be here and she's using that. She's using me. Whatever: everyone wants something. Everyone has their price. It fucks with her mind that she can't afford my price anymore – or ever again.

The thought makes me smile. Her eyes narrow as she watches my face, and I know I've scored a hit because she can't reach me anymore. You could say I'm untouchable. How fucking ironic.

"There was a reason I wanted to talk to you, Christian."

_Yeah, surprise me._

I wait, one hand lying relaxed on my thigh, the other wrapped around the wine glass as I lift it to my lips.

"What are your thoughts on safe sex, Christian?"

I pause, then lower the glass to the table.

"Is that a fucking joke, Elena?"

She raises her eyebrows, smiling at my reaction.

_Yeah, she's good: she's surprised me. I really fucking hate that_.

"Not at all, Christian. In fact, it's a subject with which all young people should be familiar, don't you agree?"

I wait. I won't give her the satisfaction of answering her inane rambling.

She leans forward, her eyes dissecting me.

"Are you protected, Christian?"

_What the fuck? _She really has gone too far.

Her smirk irritates the fuck out of me.

I decide I've had enough of her shit, and start to stand.

"Sit down!" she hisses.

She hasn't used that tone with me since… since the last time I let her dominate me. For a second, my body starts to react to her, but no. Not now, not ever.

I drop my napkin onto the table.

"Goodbye, Elena."

"Christian, please! I'm… I really do need to talk to you."

Her tone softens and she sees my hesitation, instantly zeroing in on it.

"It's important: no more games."

_As if she could ever stop._

"Fine."

I sit down and stare at her, my temper only just under control.

"Talk."

"You've become quite a celebrity in Seattle," she says, choosing her words carefully. "You're of interest to the Press. Even that rag, the Seattle Nooz, is calling you 'an enigma' – which means you're very fucking interesting, Christian. Which means, you don't want your _interesting _lifestyle to be leaked. It would finish you. And as for your mother…"

A arch of her eyebrows. She's hooked me. Now she's going to reel me in._Is this about blackmail?_

I badly want to hit something.

"Your point?" I spit out.

"That you need to practice safe sex, little joke, don't look so grumpy. You need _insurance_. And I don't just mean from Christine. What's to stop your little friend, Kirsten, spilling her guts if she decides she needs a bigger pay day?"

"We have a contract…" I begin.

"Please, Christian! Don't be naïve," she sneers at me. "Do you think for one second that will help you? Yes, you could sue her for breach, but your lifestyle would already be _exposed_. The damage already done."

"I'm aware of that, Elena, but as _you_ taught me, the agreement is based on trust. By now, Kirsten could have…"

"I'm not interested in your mousy little sub, Christian!" she hisses, her eyes blazing. "Get yourself some insurance. Get photographs. Film her. Something so candid, so… extreme… that she'd be ruined if she ever tried to expose you. I'm sure you can think of something… creative."

The thought excites me, undoubtedly. I've never been into making my own porn films, but now Elena's mentioned it, well, maybe. Like she said, for insurance. But I also know that there's a clause in my agreement with Kirsten – no point calling it a contract – that explicitly states that digital or photographic recordings are prohibited without the agreement of both parties.

"I could ask her," I murmur, although I can't deny Elena's words have affected me.

"Ask her? Are you really that stupid, Christian? Of course she'll say no! And she's free to leave and sell a story to any dirty little newspaper that will take it. Are you _sure_ she hasn't already taken photographs of you?"

"She wouldn't. She…"

"I shouldn't have to explain this to you. You're far too trusting for your own good. I thought I'd knocked that nonsense out of you."

"You're trying my patience," I say, my voice cold and controlled. My Dom voice.

Her eyes widen slightly and I see her rub her thighs together. I hold back a small smile. Then she leans back in her chair.

"You know, I'm quite surprised that you've just stayed with the one sub all this time… you really quite like the whole 'monogamy' idea, don't you? It amazes me, Christian, for all you special _interests_, you're really quite provincial."

_What the fuck?_

"You have a duty to protect yourself," she continues, her voice calmer now she's made her point. "You need to protect your 2,000 employees. You need to protect your family. Priorities, Christian. Do it. Besides," she says, slyly, "I know you'd enjoy some mementoes – for recreational use, perhaps."

My traitorous cock twitches appreciatively at the thought. Elena knows my body and its reactions better than anyone.

She looks up as the waiter arrives with the entrées. She's smiling.

It's been one bastard of a week. I clocked over 90 hours between Sunday and Friday, and that doesn't include work I took home. Irritatingly, Mom and Mia have invited themselves over on Friday evening. They were going to the ballet together, some new modern dance shit with music that sounds like cats fighting. I can't stand that shit. But they want to visit before they head back to Bellevue, so I can't even get some relief from Kirsten if they're coming over – not till they've gone, that's for fucking sure.

Apparently they wanted to see what I've 'done' with the apartment.

I've moved in: what else do they need to know?

I've been home less than five minutes before the intercom buzzes announcing their arrival. I haven't even pulled off my tie yet. I hate people coming into my private space – even my family. I don't encourage it.

The door is hardly open, before Mia throws herself at me, making me stagger backwards.

"Holy shit, Mia! Give a man a chance!"

"Language, Christian," says Mom automatically, although I can see a smile trying to escape, too.

I kiss her on the cheek once Mia has released her stranglehold.

"Christian!" she whines, staring around the room. "This is like a monk's cell! You _have_ to do something. I'll decorate it for you – I'm really good at that. Even Mom says so."

"It's been 'decorated'," I say, patiently. "I had someone do all that shit for me."

Mom doesn't even bother to correct me this time; she just sighs like she's disappointed.

_Yeah, got the memo, Mom_.

Mia rolls her eyes. "Well, it doesn't look like it! I mean just look at this room," she says, waving her hands around to indicate the main living space. "I think Fritz Klein would look really good against these white walls. Don't worry, it's all monochromatic. Bold black lines on white background, and _big_ maybe Susan Rothenberg. And you _need _some Alessi flatware…"

"No, dear," says Grace, interrupting the torrent that I'm doing my best to ignore. "Smooth flatware shows more scratches."

"Mom!" shrieks Mia. "I'm _helping_! And if you want me to cook you dinner here, Christian," she continues, ignoring my sotto voce comment _I don't_, you'll have to get some Le Creuset. Oh and KostaBoda or Orrefors have good crystal stuff although for wine you'd obviously go for Riedell hand blown glasses…"

My eyes are glazing over. "Mia…"

"And when you order your custom made suits – I hope you're getting them from Savile Row – tell the tailor to leave the jacket pockets sewn up. They need to settle before you…"

"For fuck's sake, Mia!"

Her mouth drops open and she looks wounded. I've never sworn at her before – not like I meant it.

_Shit. I've really hurt her_. I just couldn't listen to her spouting all that shit anymore.

"Christian – apologize to your sister."

Mom's voice is furious.

"Look, I'm sorry, but…"

"No buts, Christian. Mia was only trying to help. There was absolutely no need for your unpleasant outburst. Come, Mia. We're leaving."

Mia is in tears, Mom is white with anger, and I don't know how the fuck to fix this.

"Sorry," I mutter, lamely. Mia gives a small wave as she leaves, trying to smile. If I had a heart it would fucking break.

Kirsten arrives at two in the morning. She looks tired. Too fucking bad for her because I'm wide awake.

"Sir, I know I'm not supposed to talk," she drops her eyes as she sees my expression, "but I really must thank you for your gift. I've never had a new car before – and it's just beautiful. I love it. You're so generous! When it arrived, I thought for sure there must be a mistake. I mean, I could never have afforded… and then I looked at the paperwork and they said it was definitely for me. And then I saw your name… It's really too much…"

I stop her. I can't hear her ramble on about what a great guy I am. What a fucking joke.

"I'll decide what's 'too much', Kirsten."

"Of course, sir. I apologize. Please punish me for talking out of turn."

_My fucking pleasure._

And it is. I don't have it in me to hold back tonight. I use the cane, the thin one. Her beautiful skin colors up quickly, and soon she's panting. I fuck her hard from behind, standing against the wall. And, for the first time with Kirsten, I claim her ass, too. It's a nice ass: not spectacular, but round and tight. It feels good, although I know I should have worked up to it a little more. But it's not like it's something she hasn't done. Whatever.

And when,at last, my head is a little clearer, I take the photographs that Elena suggested: my insurance.

Even though she's blindfolded, Kirsten can hear the click of the camera. Her head turns towards the sound and her mouth moves, although no words come out. Not that I can make out anything through the gag she's wearing.

Later, when I've released her, she asks me to rub in the fucking baby lotion. What am I, her fucking great aunt? I do it, reluctantly, even though it feels kind of nice. It's too intimate, too personal, and she has to remember she's just here to do a job. It's just a job. _I'm _just a job.

She falls asleep while I'm showering. I hate the sensation that she's asleep and closed off from me, while nothing will allow me to rest, either my mind or my body. I stand watching her for a moment. She looks younger when she's asleep, innocent somehow. Although after the fucking I gave her, I know innocent is the last thing she is. As I turn to leave, I notice that her cheeks are wet. _What? _Has she been crying? Was I too rough? She didn't give the safe sign. What the fuck?

I consider waking her up and demanding an explanation, but reconsider, remembering that I'm the only twisted fucker whose body won't let him sleep. Other people, normal people – they sleep soundly, like children. Just not all children.

My piano is the last refuge: if that doesn't soothe me, draw my consciousness towards sleep, nothing will. Nothing. I play Satie, Debussey, somePachabel. It helps, a little. Even so, I see the pink tinged clouds that herald another morning in Seattle. Another day. Unless you're me, in which case it's the same fucking day over and over, with nothing changing. Least of all me.

I hear Kirsten stirring. I'm surprised as it's still early and usually she likes to sleep in. Then I hear the shower running and the thought of her flesh, marked by the cane, warm and slippery under my fingers makes me hard, but another thought intrudes. I remember the tears on her cheeks, and think better of it. What business has a sub got crying like that? Maybe she's got a problem at work. I might be able to do something about that – although I know fuck all about social work. Still, live and learn, right?

I'm surprised when I see her walk into the main room fully dressed. That's not what she's supposed to do. But when I see a determined look on her face, I start to put two and two together.

"May I speak to you, Christian, and not as your sub?"

I'm surprised but wave her into a chair.

"Do you have a problem at work, Kirsten? Because I could look into it and…"

"You took photographs of me last night. Didn't you."

She doesn't say it like a question.

I shift uneasily.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Insurance. I need you to know the consequences should you ever discuss my lifestyle with anyone. Ever."

She looks angry. I've never seen Kirsten angry. Her face creases curiously.

"Have I given you any reason to doubt my integrity, Christian? Any sign that I wouldn't follow both the spirit and the rules of our contract?"

"No, but I have to be careful."

"_You _chose this lifestyle, Christian; you chose _me_. Don't you know that I'd never… I couldn't… I wouldn't…"

She becomes incoherent and I try to soothe her.

"It was just a business decision, Kirsten. Don't…"

Her head snaps up and she glares at me, igniting my own ever-present anger.

"A business decision! Is that how you can justify violating my trust like that? Violating _me_?"

"That's not it, for fuck's sake!"

_Damn it, why is she twisting everything I say? _

"I wish to dissolve our _business_ arrangement," she spits out.

"What? Why?"

_I can't believe this. I've always treated her well. She's had whatever she wanted. I bought her a fucking car for Christ's sake!_

"Are you seriously asking me why, Christian?" She stares at me. "You really have no clue, do you? I feel sorry for you. Fine: I'll explain. I'm leaving you because you treat me like nothing; because you don't care about me – I'm just a convenient fuck with no strings, no feelings attached. If that's what you think a sub is, then you're wrong. Very wrong. For God's sake, Christian! Do you even see yourself? Sometimes I think you show some kindness, and then it vanishes behind the steel walls you put up. I can't even touch you! You reject any attempt to show you tenderness. Do you think I haven't noticed? I'm not stupid. You won't let anyone touch you physically or emotionally. I don't know why you bother having a sub, if you're going to treat me like a sub-human."

I can't believe this self-serving garbage she's throwing out at me.

"What are you talking about? I've done everything you asked me! I bought you a car! I even massaged in the fucking baby lotion when you wanted me to. What's your problem?"

Her expression changes slowly, from fury, to one of sympathy. I don't like either.

"It's not your fault, Christian. I do see that, really. And you're still very young. But I want more in my life than… just this. I never asked for you to give me a car, and really – you can have it back."

"Take the fucking car," I mutter, turning my back on her.

I wait for the door to shut behind her, but she doesn't leave.

"My old Dom has been in touch," she says softly. "At first I told him no, that I was happy with my new arrangement, with you. But I see now that I was wrong – about you. I don't know if you're capable of love, Christian."

_What? What the fuck is she talking about – love?_

But she hasn't finished yet.

"Sometimes I think you… well, it doesn't matter. But he says he wants me to come to Florida and live with him. He misses me and he says he loves me. So I'm going. It's a small town called Montverde, about an hour from the ocean. And I think we'll be happy. I know you don't understand that. And I've had my doubts for a while now, but last night, you made up my mind. It was wrong for you to take those photographs without my permission. I trusted you. You let me down."

Finally, _finally_, she stops talking.

I stare at her, utterly bemused. I had no idea she was so… whatever.

Turning my back, my eyes take in the Seattle skyline. The pink has faded from the sky and all is gray. When Kirsten finally understands that I have nothing to say to her, she leaves. It's several minutes before I realize she's left the car keys.

_What the fuck just happened? _Yeah, okay, so I should have discussed the photo thing with Christine and got a revised contract, but I don't get the whole thing about _violating_ her. I mean, for fuck's sake, I spent last night fucking every orifice in her body and what sets her shit alight is a fucking photograph? I don't get it.

Whatever. She's left. I knew she would. Everyone leaves sooner or later – it's just a matter of time.

It's a fucking myth that we're born into the world with a family. Who still sells that sentimental shit these days other than Hallmark? We're born alone, we live alone, and we die alone. Simple. What's not to understand about that?

So why do I feel like shit?

.

.

**Thanks for reading!**

**And thanks, too, to everyone who's asked me when the sequel to 'Sebastian' is coming out. 'The Education of Caroline' will be published on 14 Feb on Amazon and Smashwords.**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

2005

The day is fucked and it's not even 7AM.

I throw _The_ _Seattle Times_ onto my desk and pick up the office phone to call Ros.

_**Trouble in the Boardroom **_

_Heavy industry continues to head to the Far East._

_Callum Marchant reports._

_As yet another contract by-passes local companies and more redundancies are announced at Puget Sound Dry Dock and Construction Company, fears increase that shipbuilding in Seattle will be entering more than a dry spell. _

_Founded in 1898, the former family-owned company was floated on the stock market in 1987,having survived the global economic recession of the early 1980s. Riding high on government tax breaks and incentives, PSDD&CC invested heavily in designing and building break-bulk and container ships._

_As of 2001, more than 90% of world trade in non-bulk goods is transported in ISO containers. But despite their innovation with double-bottom hulls, designed to contain fuel oil, ballast water or fresh water, new business has fallen by 57% at the Washington based company, leading to a third raft of redundancies in as many years._

_A source inside PSDD&CC recently told this paper that, 'boardroom squabbles have exacerbated the problem' and that 'in-fighting' has led to a below-the-radar search for angel investors to finance a refloatation. _

_Is time-running out for one of Seattle's oldest companies?_

Ros stalks into my office brandishing her own copy of the newspaper. As always, she's keeping up with me.

"We're screwed," she hisses.

"No, not yet," I say, leaning back in my chair, feigning a calm I don't necessarily feel.

"Are you kidding me, Christian? Now this is public knowledge, we'll be fighting off East Coast investors left, right and center, not to mention the Chinese and Taiwanese. It'll add at least $250 million to the price! We don't have that kind of leverage available."

"Maybe."

Her anxiety is having the reverse effect on me, perverse bastard that I am.

"Your five year business plan is based on securing this purchase. You _need_ this, Christian. You've been talking about this and planning for this for a whole year. So why are you sitting there like King Canute, willing back the tide, when we've put a thousand man-hours in on this – and that's just you and me?"

A peaceful feeling descends: this is where I belong, in the eye of the storm.

"Because I just figured something out."

She stares at me, growing impatient when I don't elucidate.

"And? What did you figure out? Are you going to tell me or is it twenty goddamn questions, because I've got to tell you, Christian, right now I'm ready to call the men in white coats because you're _not_ freaking out."

_If only she knew_. Mom has been on me to start seeing a shrink again. Like that's ever fixed anything.

"Because the company's audit is wrong."

The answer has come to me suddenly, unexpectedly. My mind has made one of those unfathomable leaps that even I don't fully understand.

"What? How do you know their audit is wrong?"

"I just know."

"Come on, Christian. You've got to give me more than that! I've met with the accountants, external and internal auditors dozens of times; you've scoured the company's financial reports, interrogated its management – we found nothing. Nothing."

"They lied."

She stares at me.

It's hard to explain how I know. It's a feeling, a gut instinct. I know when people are hiding something. I'm a fucking expert on keeping secrets, and the CEO – Marc Benson – has been… too helpful.

"All I can tell you, Ros, is that there was something nagging at me, and I've just worked out what it is: a portion of its revenues in a previous quarter doesn't add up."

I spin my laptop around to show her. She squints at the tiny figures then nods slowly.

"Okay, I see it, too. But the amount in question is small – a few million dollars," and she shrugs.

"I think it's more than a few million, Ros. If I'm right – and I'm pretty fucking sure I am – the company has improperly overstated its revenues – by more than $300 million."

Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a deep breath.

"Christian, are you sure…?"

As I explain my reasoning, the certainty grows inside me, and I can see that my argument is convincing Ros.

"Look – the Board are a bunch of dicks. They're harking back to their glory days when PSDD&CC initially listed on the New York Stock Exchange. They haven't got a fucking clue what's going on in the real world. They get paid lavishly to mix it with the rich and powerful, shake a few Senators' hands, catch up with the good ole boys over a grilled tuna lunch, and jet home. They don't have to make any effort. They listen to Benson, go to one meeting a month, look like they know what the fuck they're talking about – which they don't – and agree with everything he says. Then they pocket their $125,000 a year, and act as directors for four other companies that kiss their well-padded asses."

"Okay, fine. They're shitty directors, we know that. But they'd still have to vote themselves out of a job."

"They will."

She looks skeptical.

"Well, what if you're right. How are you going to play this?"

I smile at Ros and she blinks, looking momentarily unnerved.

"I take the fuckers apart."

Ros sets up the meeting. The timing is still sensitive after the irritating disclosure, courtesy of _The Seattle Times_, but I'm confidant that I've covered every angle and that the deal will still go my way.

When Elliot was ten, he used to like those storybooks where you chose your own ending. You know, decide what the character does next; decide how it ends. I always figured out every possible outcome – every ending – plus a few the author hadn't even considered. It was easy for me, I don't know why. Business is just the same: I compute every possible angle; every ramification of every decision; calculate the risk against the potential return on investment. It's simply a question of logic, backed up by research. That's where most people fall down – they don't do their research. They're sloppy, lazy, driven by emotional incontinence. Since I don't have any emotions, I have an advantage.

The irony is not lost on me. I'm good, because I'm bad. I win, because I've already lost. Making money is easier than breathing. Even my parents have no clue how wealthy I am. Would they be shocked if they knew I earned $50,000 an hour, every hour? Not that they'd care about that. I know exactly what Mom would say, "But does it make you happy?"

How the fuck would I know? It makes me secure. It means that I won't starve. It means I can look after my family: Mia, Elliot, Mom and Dad, my grandparents. Anything they need, I can give them. Perhaps I should qualify that: anything that can be bought, I can give them.

Elena made me watch _Gone with the Wind_ once. To this day, I don't know whether or not that was supposed to be punishment or pleasure – although often it was the same thing with her. But one scene in that film resonated with me:

"_I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again_."

Elena laughed at that, scoffing at the sentimentality of it, the melodrama. But Elena has never been truly hungry. She's never felt the hole in your stomach that hurts so badly, you can't even crawl across the floor. The kind of hunger where you'd eat grass if you could find a field.

But that's what drives me – a wish to never be that dirty little four-year-old shit, everyone's whipping boy. I don't expect anyone to understand that.

I hold the door open for Ros as we enter the Boardroom at PSDD&CC's offices. It's a tactic, as well as manners.

Benson sits at the head of the table; the Chairman of the Board, Malcolm Sutcliffe, sits at the other. The rest of the Board is spread out around the huge slab of wood in a way that's designed to intimidate the opposition.

They greet Ros, whom they've met before, and don't even acknowledge me. They think I'm her assistant – some wet behind the ears kid. They'll be surprised when they find out who I am and it'll throw them off balance. Ros and I have played this riff before. If they'd done their homework, they'd know who the fuck I was. Well, they will soon.

Benson clears his throat and shakes Ros's hand before we take a seat.

"Good to see you again, Ms. Bailey." He pauses and looks questioningly towards the door. "Are we waiting for Mr. Grey?"

"Not at all," Ros says, smoothly. "Allow me to introduce you: Marc Benson, Christian Grey."

And there it is – the look of shock, badly concealed.

"Ah, Mr. Grey! Well! Well, I see. It's good to meet you at last."

I nod, my face blank. I can hold this look for hours – Elena taught me well.

His handshake is limp and a little damp. I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and discreetly wipe my hand.

"Right, well. Let's get started," he says, trying to push authority into his voice.

It isn't working and he can't stop his eyes flickering toward me. _Too young_, his brain is telling him. _Does not add up; does not compute_.

"Ahem," he clears his throat noisily then fights to bring back his control. "Since our previous meeting," he begins, looking at Ros, then at me again, "there have been some developments."

He still can't take his eyes off of me; he's trying to work it out, but he's coming up short. His demeanor, however, is intentionally smug.

"We've been approached by a number of private equity firms and are confident that their offer will provide the growth capital we need to return PSDD&CC to its rightful place as a global player in shipping and ship construction."

The Board members smile their satisfied, shark smiles, leaning back in their chairs.

Benson lets his empty words hang in the air. I let them drift to the floor as the silence billows out.

When my lack of response has unnerved them, I speak quietly but clearly.

"You think Star Management is going to offer you a leveraged buyout," I say, pretending to be thoughtful.

Their smiles fade.

"How did you know that Star M…?"

Benson halts himself, realizing he's giving himself away.

I meet his gaze. "They won't offer you anything."

His lips tighten and he desperately wants to ask how much I know and what I mean, but he'll lose face if he does.

"Nor will Acron Developments," my voice whispers out, like a dry finger of death. "They both found the ratio of debt to equity was not to their liking," I continue quietly.

Benson freezes and several members of the Board look annoyed. They don't like surprises. They don't know how to adapt. They didn't have the _training_ that I had. They haven't had to recite the periodic table while wearing a cock cage, trying _not _to get aroused as Elena teaches me control with a cane. They should put that in Business 101 at Harvard.

"In fact, they learned that you have overstated the company's revenues by $327.3 million," I intone.

"Arrant nonsense!"

"Ridiculous!"

The comments from the Board rain down thick and fast, but Benson has yet to reply.

"What this company is looking at," I say, my voice rising above the babble, "is three years embroiled in a massive accounting scandal. There will be government investigations, potential lawsuits by former shareholders, and endless press speculation of misfeasance if not malfeasance. Ultimately you will have to write off $192 million of your earnings. But, of course, PSDD&CC would not survive."

"Benson!" yelps Sutcliffe. "What the hell is he saying? Is there any basis for truth in these… in these laughable assertions?"

Benson looks green and Ros edges away from him, apparently concerned that he might vomit on her Gucci pumps.

"Your D&O insurance will not cover you for this, gentleman," I offer, almost gently.

All talk dies away.

The Board members look helplessly at Benson who is still silent.

"You… you have an alternative suggestion?" asks Sutcliffe in a strangled voice when it becomes clear that their CEO is still mute.

"As of 8AM this morning, I became PSDD&CC's sole shareholder. I suggest you vote yourselves out of a job, gentlemen… and give me the keys to the front door."

There's an astonished silence. I have the bizarre sensation that I'm looking into a fish tank and all the inmates are blinking back at me, mouths opening and shutting as I stare at them.

I stand, fasten a single button on my jacket. As Ros catches my eye, I feel my lips twitch in what might be a smile.

"You can take it from here, Ros."

That was such a fucking rush.

I seriously need to burn off some adrenaline after that. I wish I'd arranged for a new Sub, but I haven't gotten around to it. The whole scenario with Kirsten was… disconcerting. I mean, for fuck's sake – all that bullshit she was talking about love. That was just bizarre – she was my Sub; she ought to have known her place. I conclude that Christine's screening process was incomplete and I must go back and look at the details I provided, too. I have to make it clear and unequivocal that being my Sub is a business relationship of mutual pleasure and convenience – nothing more.

Elena told me that a lot of married couples also have additional Dom/Sub relationships with third parties. Sometimes this is a shared pleasure but, more usually, because the needs of one half of the couple are not met within the marital unit. It makes sense to use the services of another person rather than to break up a marriage which is otherwise workable.

I admit the concept makes me uneasy, although I'm not sure why. I can see the benefits, and I do know of Doms who have more than one Sub. Although Elena never mentioned anything, I long suspected that I wasn't the only Sub that she had at any one time, although I do believe that I stayed with her the longest.

I remember when I first realized that she wasn't exclusively mine – and it burned to think of her with someone else. For a long time I believed that it was my fault, that I wasn't enough for her. I later came to see that it was merely expedience. Because of school, and living at home, I wasn't available to her as often as either of us would have wished. And she had needs. Living under my parents' roof, there was little I could do about mine, let alone hers.

Yes, about those needs – I really have to make an appointment with Christine.

I make a spur of the moment decision and instead of heading back to the office, I make an illegal U-turn and drive toward Greenlake.

It's early evening and the traffic is heavy. It takes nearly 40 minutes before I reach the lake front. I pull over and stare out at the darkening water, cold and silent.

I nearly have a fucking heart attack when a ghoulish face peers in my window – long, yellow teeth and a pock-marked face.

_Fuck_. Halloween. I'd forgotten.

I always enjoyed Halloween when I was a kid – it was the only time that my outside appearance reflected the chaos inside. Surrounded by horror, it was the only time I felt normal.

I realize that the year is nearly over. It's been months since I've seen my family. Mia texts me and includes me in links on her Facebook page. Perhaps it's appropriate that a line of digital zeroes and ones have become my link to my family. I'm surprised to realize that I miss them, but they're better off without me. I know I'm not the son and brother they want, but my work – my money – will keep them safe.

I restart the car, enjoying the speed and sophistication of the new Mercedes SL Class Cabriolet. It's a toy but if nothing else, my money affords me the wherewithal to have the best. I've heard that Audi are re-launching the Spyder R8. It's a mid-engine, two-seater sports car – with a waiting list, unless you're Christian Grey and money is no object. It will have the quattro permanent all-wheel drive system and will use an aluminum monocoque built around space frame principles. I'm considering flying out to at Neckarsulm in Germany to visit the factory. I can combine work with pleasure and check on a cell phone manufacturing company in the Ruhr valley that I have an interest in. Who says I don't have a life?

I haven't had much time for more flying lessons, but that's something else I'll get back to. I'm not that far off taking my test and getting a license. That's a project for next year.

Christine's BDSM members-only club has changed since I was last here. It now has valet parking, and I hand my keys to a uniformed man who looks about Elliot's age. His eyes widen with pleasure as I step out, but it's the car that's turning him on. Sometimes, being well-dressed, being surrounded by beautiful things, it deflects people from staring at me. It doesn't always work, but it gives me a moment of peace, a fleeting feeling of normalcy. I hate it when they stare.

The doorman pushes the heavy wooden door, allowing me to enter the opulent reception. He deftly pockets the $10 bill I give him. Very smooth, no fumbling. I'm pleased to see that Christine hires only the best. It makes me hopeful that she'll select a more appropriate match for me this time.

I'm welcomed by the concierge who hears my request to meet with Christine.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Grey. Miss Christine is in a meeting at the moment. She'll be free in half-an-hour if you'd care to wait in our lounge."

She escorts me to the room that reminds me of an old-fashioned gentleman's club with heavy, over-stuffed leather armchairs, and the smell of beeswax.

A waiter glides across the room, bringing me a glass of Montrachet. Impressive. I've only been here once before and that was nearly a year ago, yet my wine preference is immediately supplied. I relax a little.

My thoughts stray to the first time I came here. With Elena. And the first time I saw Kirsten. I still don't understand why she chose to go to Florida. I made it my business to find out about her Dom. He was considerably older than me, but couldn't supply anything like the level of comfort I could offer Kirsten. So why did she leave?

"How lovely to see you, Christian. You look well."

Thinking of Elena appears to have conjured her forth.

Her voice is a cool whisper close to my ear. I'm pleased that I don't react, either to the surprise or to her presence. I stand and kiss her cheek.

"Elena, always a pleasure."

Her small frown is immediately swept away, but she knows that I've seen it. She wanted to see the affect she has on me. And she's disappointed.

My eyes slide over to her companion whom she hasn't introduced. Her new Sub. His build is similar to mine, although he's not quite as tall; he's about the same age.

"This is Andrei; Andrei, Christian."

We shake hands and his eyes meet mine briefly. I see a flash of recognition – not because he knows me, but he can see what I am. Perhaps he's also guessed what I was. He looks down at the carpet and waits.

I realize that I'm waiting, too – waiting for a flush of jealousy now I've met Elena's new interest. But nothing happens. Curious.

"I assume you're here to see Christine?" Elena muses. "I hope she can do better than that little social worker she matched you up with last time. Goodness, I thought she was running a professional business here."

I'm irritated, and although I hide it well, Elena isn't fooled.

She turns to her Sub. "Andrei, go and wait at our table."

He leaves immediately and Elena settles herself in the chair next to me, even though I haven't invited her to sit.

I lower myself back to my own chair wondering what's coming next. The anticipation of sparring with her is a sensation I enjoy.

"We've known each other quite a few years now, Christian." She smiles, silkily. "But I'd like to add a new element to our friendship."

I wait.

She edges forward, all playfulness gone.

"I want to open a beauty salon, Christian. I'm tired of substandard service and half-trained girls who haven't got a clue how to serve a client. I've located a suitable downtown location and I need $850,000 for the premises and eight months running costs."

I see no problem with that. Elena loaned me money to get me started – I'm happy to repay the favor. Relieved, in fact, that the debt is repaid with more than hard cash.

"Fine. I'll write you a check."

She leans back in her seat, her body stiff with anger. I don't know why.

"It's so easy for you, isn't it, Christian?" she hisses. "All you have to do is to write a check – problem solved."

I blink at the vitriol in her voice.

"God, you're just like him – just like my ex-husband," she mutters.

_What the fuck?_

"Don't look at me like that," she sneers. "You _are_ like him. He thought fobbing me off with money would keep me quiet, keep me occupied so I could be a dutiful little …"

Her words come to an abrupt halt as she reins in her scalding anger.

"I can do this, Christian," she says with more composure. "I've got a sound business plan and I know what is needed. I want you as a silent partner. There's an opportunity here for a whole chain of salons across the city. Maybe in other cities, too. Who knows? The potential is enormous."

I know nothing about beauty salons and have less interest. But Elena is astute and reads people well. Hell, she could see what a fucked up kid I was as a teenager and knew _exactly_ how to help me when a decade of shrinks had done nothing.

"Do you have a name for this salon yet?"

She lifts her eyebrows. "Esclava."

"Esclava? The Spanish for 'female slave'? That's very… very _you_, Elena."

"I thought you'd like it, Christian. I chose the name with you in mind." She smiles. "Regardless, your return on investment will be substantial."

"Elena, I'm not worried about that. Of course I'll help you."

"I don't want _help_," she snaps. "This is a business opportunity."

I'm struggling to see the difference, but if that's the way she wants to play it.

"Fine. Come by the office next week. I'll look at your business plan and have a contract drawn up."

"Thank you," she says, after a short pause.

The conversation over, we both stand. She raises her hands to my shoulders and I resist stepping away from her. She gives me another chaste kiss on the cheek.

She smiles, her eyes glittering with excitement.

"This is the start of our new relationship, Christian," she breathes into my ear.

I nod but don't reply.

She starts to walk away and I call after her.

"Elena, call my secretary for an appointment."

A look of fury crosses her face and I smile my first genuine smile of the day.

She recovers herself quickly.

"Do say hello to Grace for me, Christian, next time you see her. I know she misses her boy."

My smile vanishes. She knew it would.

.

.

**Thank you for putting up with the delay in posting, lovely people. Part of the delay is due to my writing a new book, 'Dangerous to Know & Love' which will be published May 17 on Amazon and Smashwords. Thanks for reading. jhb x**


End file.
